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BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 


{Leisure Hour Series.) 

JOSEPH NOTREL’S REVENGE. Translated by Wm. F 
West, A.M. 

COUNT KOSTIA. Translated by O. D. Ashley. 
PROSPER. Translated by Carl Benson. 


LEISURE HOUR SERIES . 


R O S P E R 

A NOVEL 


Translated from the French 

/ OF 

VICTOR lHERBULIEZ 

M 

BY 

CARL BENSON 



krZ |) 

ibJj^r 7 


NEW YORK a 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1874 


.CA** • 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
HENRY HOLT, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Stereotyped at the 
Women’s Printing House, 
Nos. 56, 5S, and 60 Park Street, 
New York. 


PROSPER 


PART FIRST. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was about ten o’clock when Didier de Peyrols 
left the Theatre Royal of Berlin. The night was 
cold but clear. For a long time he walked under 
the Lindens. On that evening Hamlet had been 
played. The performance went off well. Hamlet 
had distinguished himself, Ophelia was most grace- 
ful in her madness, the great final slaughter had 
been accomplished without any awkward casualty. 
Of all the masterpieces of dramatic art, Hamlet 
seemed to Didier the best — not that he found in 
this play more art or more genius than in the Cid 
or in Britannicus, but it spoke more than any 
other both to his heart and to his intellect. He was 
never weary of re-reading it, ever drawing new 
emotions from this unfailing spring. For years he 
had dreamed of seeing represented the masterpiece 
which he knew by heart. His dream was at last 
realized, and the hope long cherished had fulfilled 
all its promise. 

Didier was quite as capable as any one of ad- 
miring fine verse ; he possessed a cultivated mind, 
a practised taste, a true and delicate ear. Neverthe- 

1 


2 


PROSPER . 


less, what he sought in poetry was less art itself, 
than the inspired delineation of life and men ; it 
was for him less a recreation for the mind than a 
superior wisdom, a species of revelation. 

While reading the poets, he aspired to arrive at 
a better knowledge of himself ; he looked for him- 
self in their fictions, and if Hamlet was the object 
of his preference, it was because he had it in him, — 
how shall I express it ? — something of the stuff of 
which Hamlets are made. It is true Didier had 
not been born amid the mists of the North, nor 
was he the son of a Danish king. No tragedy to 
be found in his history; he might have paced at 
midnight the terrace of Elsinor without meeting a 
menacing shade that intrusted to him the avengers’ 
duty. He had come into the world under soft 
skies, on the confines of Dauphiny and Provence, 
afar from the Fir trees, and under the shadow of 
the Olive. 

His father was a worthy country gentleman, and 
also a capitalist, who had passed his life in making 
money for himself and happiness for others. Thus 
Didier had not to fear being devoted to dark ad- 
ventures by any wish of his father. Nothing sinis- 
ter in his past, nothing alarming in his future. No 
Ophelia, either, in his path; he had known plea- 
sure, but his heart had remained free. Impossible 
to find in his life material for a drama, not even the 
theme for a short tale — misfortune seemed to say 
to him, “ If you wish to know me, come and look 
for me.” Perhaps in the bottom of his heart 
Didier was curious to make this new acquaintance ; 
but he was indolent, and remained at home. 

“ Indolent as Hamlet ! ” I think he would will- 
ingly have adopted this motto, and however ambi- 
tious it may appear, he would have found no diffi- 
culty in justifying it. The young Danish prince 
has remained the immortal type of those men w hose 


PROSPER. 


3 


generosity of character and loftiness of mind ren- 
der them unfit for action. To play a part on the 
stage of the world one must not fear to commit 
one’s self with fortune ; and whoever will take the 
trouble to reflect, will not be long in finding out 
that she shows little delicacy in her choice of 
friendships, that she often bestows her favors un- 
worthily, that petty means and petty passions easily 
find grace in her sight, and that if success is always 
applauded, those who bow down and burn incense 
before it soon grow niggardly of their esteem. At 
the University of Wittemberg, Hamlet had learned 
to despise public opinion and its toys. He con- 
cluded that things have no value beyond what 
vanity bestows upon them, that there is no aim 
worthy of effort, that to pass judgment on life is 
better than to live it. His cynical indifference 
protected him from all ambition, he cared for noth- 
ing but his thoughts. 

“Good God,” exclaimed he, “I might be shut 
up in a nut-shell, and feel like a king ruling over 
infinite space, if I had no dreams.” Didier had not 
studied at the University of Wittemberg ; but he, 
too, was born with the fatal gift of reflection. 
From an early age he had observed the ways of the 
world, and like his royal model, he had said more 
than once, 

“ Man delights not me — no, nor woman neither.” 

He had seen so many mediocrities flourish and 
expand under the sun of renown, so many follies 
wafted by prosperous gales, so many quacks get 
the better of simpletons, so many dishonest men 
bespatter with the insolence of their triumphs silent 
and confounded virtue, that at the age of illusions 
he had already given up living : it was enough for 
him to look on and see how others lived. He laid 


4 


PROSPER. 


claim to nothing, had never undertaken or desired 
anything ; he remained shut up in his shell, though 
in danger of sometimes having bad dreams. 

To this contempt for success, which paralyzed his 
will, must be added an incurable timidity which he 
did not like to avow. Our defects spring from our 
good qualities. Didier had a heart naturally kind 
and sympathetic, and could enter with great fa- 
cility into the feelings of others. Seeing men 
greatly occupied with themselves, he disliked to 
occupy them with himself. He had neither the 
ability nor the desire to impose himself on any 
one ; and to explain or discuss, was to him a spe- 
cies of torture. He had more than once tried to 
do it, but had been quickly disgusted. A frown, a 
look which betrayed anxiety, the slightest token of 
impatience or absence of mind, had been enough to 
chill his impulse. “ What use is it,” he would say, 
“ to annoy others with my foolish demands — people 
who care so much about themselves when I care so 
little for myself?” He who has received from 
Heaven neither a taste for argument nor the bold- 
ness to conspire, will do well to abjure all ambi- 
tion; and this Didier had almost done. I know not 
whether Hamlet was timid or not : this is a weak- 
ness which any one would keep secret, and which 
self-love knows how to disguise. However that 
may be, Didier had decided that, despite the dis- 
tance which separates the heroes of tragedy from 
common martyrs, Hamlet resembled himself at all 
points. J ust now in the theatre he had recognized 
himself, not without a thrill of joy ; his indolence 
had appeared before him on the boards, ennobled, 
glorified, adorned with a fragment of royal purple, 
and this vision had charmed his pride. 

Lost in these reflections, he walked to and fro 
between the statue of Frederick the Great and the 
gate of Brandeburg, without perceiving that the 


PROSPER . 


5 


weather was stingingly cold. He put himself in 
the place of his hero. Charged, like him, with 
avenging the murder of his father, he would have 
felt all his uncertainties and perplexities ; like him, 
he would have let the sun go down fifty times upon 
his wrath ; like him, he would have felt his resolu- 
tion escaping, and dishonor at the crime committed 
turning into a listless and apathetic melancholy ; 
like him, he would have been indignant at his own 
want of indignation, and after having drawn the 
sword from the scabbard, he would have seen his 
hand, when just ready to strike, fall again at his 
side as if benumbed by an invisible torpedo. 
“ What a happy man was Laertes ! ” thought he, 
reflecting on the contrast which Shakespeare has 
intended to establish between the son of Polonius 
and the lov^r of Ophelia. “Nothing stops him, 
he feels no doubt about anything. Why should 
one reflect or dream ? He wills and acts. Hard- 
ly has he learned that his father is dead, when 
he hastens away, intoxicated with the desire of 
vengeance. He arrives, presents himself to the 
people, rouses them to rebellion, penetrates into 
the palace sword in hand. Polonius shall be 
avenged, or Laertes will reign — and, nevertheless,” 
thought he again, “wdiat Hamlet would consent 
to become a Laertes?” And he concluded that 
there are two species of men: those who think 
and those who will; that mediocrity of sentiment is 
favorable to energy of character, that superior nat- 
ures are out of their element here, that common- 
place men are much surer of success, and that life 
was invented for them. 

These reflections, as may be supposed, were not 
by any means mortifying to his self-love, and he 
was still enjoying them when a clock striking mid- 
night aroused him from his revery. He took leave 
of his phantoms, and went home to his lodging. 


6 


PROSPER. 


As his door was closed, he called to the porter to 
open it for him, and on entering his room perceived 
on his table a paper, the appearance of which was 
ominous. His presentiment did not deceive him : 
the notary of Nyons, an old friend of his family, 
had telegraphed him that M. de Peyrols was se- 
riously ill, that he was growing visibly worse, 
and that Didier must come without delay. Who 
knows ? Perhaps he might arrive too late. 


CHAPTER II. 

Didier arrived too late : he had only the sad 
satisfaction of being able to pay the last duties to 
the deceased. 

M. de Peyrols had always occupied a large place 
in the life of his son. Our Hamlet on a small scale 
(whose mother, a commonplace woman, indolent 
of heart and devoid of imagination, had died very 
young,) had been brought up by his father. 

It must not be supposed that M. de Peyrols had 
consecrated himself entirely to his son’s education, 
nor even that he had occupied himself with it se- 
riously or continuously. He was too busy a man 
for that — active, stirring, well-informed on many 
subjects, his head ever full of projects, he had in- 
terested himself in several industrial enterprises 
which had prospered through his counsels and by 
the assistance of his strong will. Incessantly mov- 
ing about, now at Paris, now at Marseilles, liking 
to bestir himself, and stir up others, he strode 
through life with his seven-league boots ; but from 
time to time, he made a halt at his country-seat in 
Nyons, merely to take breath again, and his son 
then became suddenly the object of his most an- 


PROSPER. 


7 


xious concern. This was an affair which for some 
days made him forget every other. Then it was 
that he perceived how very little this young man 
resembled him, how he was as little interested by 
work as by pleasure, how he never grew animated 
over anything, that he had an indolent disposition 
like his mother, and large gray eyes which seemed 
satisfied with watching the movements of flies. 
This discovery grieved him ; he took the alarm ; 
laying aside everything else, he called Didier into 
his study, spent hours in teasing him with questions 
and reproaches, trying hard to strike fire, and com- 
plaining that the tinder was damp, after which he 
held learned conferences with the preceptor he had 
given him, and of whom he had little reason to be 
proud, developed the finest theories of education, 
went into discussions in which he lost himself, ut- 
tered many aphorisms such as these : “ Only fools 
find themselves bored ; nothing has ever been in- 
vented more interesting than this world ; every- 
thing in it is material for experiment.” “ Life is a 
battle to be won : you must open fire early.” 
“ Everything should be done with ardor, even the 
most trifling game. Let my son learn to be fever- 
ish , .” “ To will is a pleasure for gods. The man 

who is a dreamer approaches the vegetable.” “ I 
fear Didier will pass his time in looking for, but 
never finding himself. I knew what I was good 
for when I had reached the age of twelve.” “ If 
you read Livy with him, try to make him take part 
resolutely with Hannibal or with the Romans. I 
want him to get excited over it. I have a holy 
horror of mental people.” 

“We must learn to eat dirt with a good grace ; 
no one can become a man in any other way, and it 
is always better than to chew on nothing. If I 
were condemned to do nothing, I would pray to 
God to send me some good trouble which would 


8 


PROSPER. 


give me occupation.” “ Didier is good, loyal, gen- 
erous ; his heart is in the right place. All that is 
nothing. An inoffensive man is the last of men. I 
should be miserable to have a son unworthy of 
making enemies.” 

All these grand maxims, repeated by the precep- 
tor to his pupil, produced but slight effect. In 
vain did Didier, actuated by filial deference, try to 
imbue himself with them ; his nature resisted ; he 
did not succeed in getting feverish, he had still less 
success in making enemies, and if he considered 
that Hannibal was in some degree right, he also 
thought the Romans not entirely in the wrong. 
Then, after having indoctrinated him for three or 
four days, M. de Peyrols would receive some busi- 
ness letter, which operated a diversion on his sud- 
den gust of paternity ; one fine morning he would 
put on his big hoots and set out on his journey, 
leaving Didier alone with his preceptor, who re- 
peated to him, as a matter of duty, and in a drawl- 
ing nasal tone, “ To will is a pleasure for gods — 
try to be feverishly interested.” “I am what I 
am. You cannot make me over again,” the young 
man would answer, emboldened by the absence of 
his father. Whatever good will he might employ, 
the carolling of a lark seemed to him more full of 
meaning than all the paternal sayings. 

When Didier reached the age for choosing a pro- 
fession, M. de Peyrols, who, although a nobleman 
and rich, had no idea of an idler for his son, de- 
voted fifteen whole days at least to feeling his 
pulse, to auscultating him, in order to find out what 
might be his tastes, and whether he had not some 
secret vocation. He passed in review before him 
every profession, showing him the best side of 
each, and trying to discover in him some prefer- 
ence. To whatever he proposed, Didier replied 
neither yes nor no ; no pronounced tastes, no de- 


PROSPER . 


9 

cided antipathies. “ Half fig, half grape,” sighed 
the father, shaking his head. To tell the truth, 
Didier possessed naturally the happiest gifts, to- 
gether with great breadth of mind ; to acquire 
knowledge was mere child’s play to him, and in a 
certain measure he took interest in everything ; he 
had an equal aptitude for botany and jurispru- 
dence, for the arts, and chemistry. He was some- 
what of a musician, drew with taste, understood 
how to construct a plan, could use a quadrant as 
well as a practised surveyor, and cut his way with- 
out very great difficulty through a thorny problem in 
mathematics. He read fluently Leibnitz and Pois- 
son ; but he took real pleasure only in general 
ideas, pure theory, all that addressed itself to the 
imagination and reflection, and he had discovered 
that in every art, in each science, there was some- 
thing mechanical which disgusted him. It is cer- 
tain that to be either a learned man or an artist, it 
does not suffice to possess only the sense of the 
beautiful and the true, or even the genius of inven- 
tion, — it is necessary to have patiently studied pro- 
cesses, to create a method, in one word, to know 
one’s trade. Even in Raphael there existed a sub- 
lime workman, and the most impassioned or in- 
spired of men will fail to persuade a crowd or a 
jury, unless he has with unremitting labor made 
himself master of the mechanical part of his pro- 
fession. Now everything purely technical inspired 
Didier with insurmountable repugnance. Thus did 
he find himself condemned to be nothing more than 
a dilettante in all things. 

However, to please his father, he consented to 
discover in himself a marked vocation for law, and 
went off bravely to go through his studies in Paris, 
lie passed his first examinations in the most bril- 
liant manner. M. de Peyrols, whose imagination 
never stopped half-way, was already dreaming of 
1 * 


10 


PROSPER. 


the highest honors of the bar for his son ; but 
the third year, in the midst of winter, Didier sud- 
denly reappeared at Nyons, with wan complexion 
and hollow cheeks and eyes, devoured by a sort of 
indescribable fever, which lie attributed to his in- 
creasing distaste for his studies, and the horror he 
felt beforehand for pettifogging and chicanery. 
M. de Peyrols frowned, shrugged his shoulders, but 
did not send his escaped student back to Paris. 
He resolved to keep him at home and occupy him 
with the care of his estate. Didier acquitted him- 
self excellently in this new position, - except that, 
as his father said of him, he scattered money by 
the handful, remitting their rents to all embarrassed 
tenants, and bestowing largesses on all the work- 
men, who repaid him with adoration. “ It is very 
lucky,” said M. de Peyrols, “ that I understand 
making money; my son seems to have a famous 
talent for spending it. It would be all right were 
it for himself, but this fellow will never know 
pleasure in this world except by deputy.” And 
from time to time he sent him away to travel for 
months together, in the hope that some encounter, 
some unexpected adventure might arouse his torpid 
will and lethargic heart. It was in this way that 
Didier had gone by his father’s orders to make a 
tour through Germany. He had nothing to com- 
plain of, as he had found Hamlet at Berlin. 

This account of his youth will assist us to com- 
prehend what Didier must have felt on hearing the 
news of his father’s death. His love for this father, 
whom he resembled so little and whose maxims 
were so opposed to his own practice, had been 
hitherto the sole moving spring of his actions. 
What should he do ? Who would now shake him 
out of his indolence ? Who would take the trouble 
to will for him? and how should he arrange the 
employment of his time ? It seemed to him that, 


PROSPER. 


1 1 


deprived of the spring which set it in motion, his 
machine must stop. 


CHAPTER III. 

Fortunately some unavoidable occupations pre- 
vented him from entirely giving way to grief. His 
father had never initiated him into the details of 
his affairs ; whatever it cost him, he must set him- 
self to work. Letters to write, accounts to exam- 
ine, voluminous correspondence to ransack, instru- 
ments to sign, these took up a large part of his 
time. This distasteful labor overwhelmed him 
with ennui, and he probably would never have gone 
through with it, if M. Patru, the notary of Nyons, 
had not been there to cut out his work for him, 
and to overcome his repugnance. 

Monsieur Patru was a man such as one often 
meets in this part of Dauphiny — a warm heart 
under a rough exterior. Short of stature, broad- 
shouldered, enthusiastic, quick-witted, sheltering 
behind his silver-mounted spectacles sharp little 
eyes, that sparkled with vivacity and humor ; he 
combined with abruptness of tone and manner a 
delicacy of feeling of which his countenance gave 
no promise. If, on the one hand, he cordially de- 
tested his enemies, and was a right good hater, on 
the other side, he showed an unswerving fidelity in 
his attachment; in every event he might be relied 
upon, and he did not wait to have his services 
asked, but divined and forestalled the desires of 
others : in the matter of self-devotion he had a 
number of little contrivances which more common- 
place friends would never think of: but he would 
not be thanked, abhorred gratitude, and put it 


12 


PROSPER. 


down without mercy. He pretended that after all 
he really cared for nobody, only sought to find 
amusement for himself ; that if he jumped into the 
water to save a friend, it was because he liked cold 
water, and wanted to show that he knew how to 
swim. Perhaps he spoke the truth; but selfishness 
is not usually so active in well-doing. 

M. Patru had been from his childhood intimate 
with M. de Peyrols; he had held Didier on his 
knees, and knew him by heart. More than once 
he had said to M. de Peyrols : “ You go the wrong 
way to work with your son ; you may reason with 
him for twenty years without gaining any influ- 
ence over him. He has his own ideas, his hobby, 
his weakness ; he was born with a contempt for 
success. His is a rare case, and I must confess, it 
interests me. If you think otherwise, and have 
sworn to convert your son to your principles, leave 
off long speeches, and only represent to him that if 
he wishes to please you, he must decide to do some- 
thing; that only thus can he insure your happiness. 
With that word only you can make him go to the 
end of the world.” But M. de Peyrols disliked to 
employ sentimental means ; he had taken it into 
his head to convince Didier, and until death came, 
had piqued himself upon succeeding. 

On his return from Berlin, Didier found M. Patru 
waiting for him in front of the H6tel du Louvre, on 
the coach-stand, and from him he learned his loss. 
The worthy man left him for some days to indulge 
his grief, then went to see him, and said : “ My 
dear friend, you are sincerely grieved at your fa- 
ther’s death ; that is right ; but the greatest mark 
of respect you can pay to his memory, will be to 
take care that his fortune runs no risk in your 
hands. You owe him thus much ; imagine that he 
is still living, and watch over his interests as he did 
himself. To do this, you must acquire a good deal 


PROSPER. 


13 

of knowledge ; summon up all your courage, throw 
yourself desperately into his papers. While you 
are arranging and examining his affairs and yours, 
you will be occupied with him.” Didier surren- 
dered to this reasoning. An account-book, a law- 
yer’s bill, had been always terrible objects to him. 
Figures did not displease him in a work on astron- 
omy, but a calculation of compound interest had 
always made him shudder ; he liked only disin- 
terested numbers. Nevertheless, he devoted him- 
self to the arid studies recommended by his father’s 
friend. M. Patru had always been in the confidence 
of M. de Peyrol’s speculations and investments; he 
might have initiated Didier in a few days, but he 
took good care not to do so. He gave him only 
general directions, and allowed him to disentangle 
everything for himself. Only from time to time 
they held conferences together, in which the young 
man gave him an account of his work, and asked 
him to clear up some difficulty. In these inter- 
views our melancholy friend astonished the notary 
by the precision of his ideas and the clearness of 
his mind. In a few weeks he had mastered sub- 
jects of which in his whole previous life he had 
never thought ; but Heaven only knows how hard 
it was for him to eat all that dirt. The hours 
which he passed in M. Patru’s office were heavy as 
lead to him ; by turns, with listless eye, he would 
survey the ceiling and the walls, or fixedly contem- 
plate some ancient spiders’ webs with dead flies 
hanging from them. As soon as the sitting was 
over, it was with an air of deliverance that he 
reached the door and hastened with quick steps 
towards some solitary retreat where he could find 
pnce more his beloved idleness. 

Nyons is situated in one of the most beautiful 
bits of country in the world. Crouched at the foot 
of a rock on the banks of the Aygues, this little 


14 


PROSPER. 


town is placed just at the outlet of a narrow defile, 
in which the high road to Gap hides itself, and at 
the entrance of a smiling valley, which, spreading 
wide by degrees, rejoins in the distance the great 
valley of the Rhone. Favored with a delicious 
climate, mild and almost always clear, watered by 
running streams, this little corner of the earth pos- 
sesses a marvellous fertility, and an almost peren- 
nial spring reigns there. Steep hill-sides shelter it 
from the north winds. 

The Mistral in vain lets loose its fury on the plain 
of Valreas ; scarcely can it make itself felt by a 
few rare pulfs of wind to the inhabitants of Nyons, 
who, nevertheless, cry out against it. The summer 
heats are tempered by a peculiar local breeze, 
which seems to come out from the fissures of a 
rock ; this fresh, caressing wind, exactly like a sea- 
breeze, has received the name of the Pontias wind, 
and you may believe that the Nyoncais are as 
proud of their Pontias as are the Marseilles people 
of their four ports and their Cannebiere. In its 
diversified soil, its rich vegetation, its abundant 
streams, this fortunate country resembles both 
Dauphiny and Switzerland ; but it is shone upon 
and warmed by a different sun, and the harvests 
show it. They are like those of Provence ; on all 
sides immense orchards of olive trees rush to the 
assault of rocky ridges, scale them victoriously, 
crown them with silvery foliage, and are in turn 
surmounted by forests of oak and pine. In short, 
here is a species of Provencal Switzerland, and 
everything seems contrived on purpose to feast and 
astonish the gaze. 

On the left shore of the Aygues rise the hills of 
Garde-Grosse, which, rounded in the form of an 
amphitheatre, protect Nyons towards the south. 
In front reigns a large terrace which is like the 
second story of the mountain, and is called the 


PROSPER. 


15 

plateau of the Guard. This is ascended by a tort- 
uous path which winds between two walls of rock ; 
these slate cliffs, naturally slit, are relieved against 
the sky like battlements. The upper part of the 
hill is composed of a succession of terraces easy 
of ascent, each of which has its barn , surrounded 
with fields, orchards, and creeping vines. Nothing 
can look more smiling than this plateau of the 
Guard. Here you breathe the pure and strength- 
ening air of the mountains, and here you might 
easily become dizzy on the edge of the precipices 
which defend its approaches on the river-side ; but 
it is a mountain tamed by the kindly sun of the 
south, and has laid aside all its primitive wildness. 
It has made friends with man, lends itself to all his 
whims, and to please him, has transformed itself 
into a garden where the pine weds with the fig 
tree, the peach with the cypress, the golden broom 
plant with the delicate pink blossoms of the almond 
tree. On the topmost terrace stands a chateau, 
half baronial, half rustic, which for two centuries, 
whether inhabited or not, has never ceased to be- 
long to the family of Peyrols. The olive trees 
have mounted thus far, but by their shrunken and 
diminished aspect, it is easy to see that this is their 
last effort, and that at such a height life is no 
longer easy to them. Beyond this stretch fields of 
wheat and oats, bounded by a vast heap of rub- 
bish, which is surmounted in turn by a wall of 
reddish chalk. The country-house is called in that 
part of the country Chateau of the Guard, and also 
the Needle fort , from a neighboring rock which 
bears this name, although it resembles rather a 
gigantic finger of stone raised towards the sky in 
token of invocation or menace. 

As soon as he had gone through with his daily 
task, Didier would hasten quickly away. lie might 
be seen wandering with his head bent down, and 


1 6 


PROSPER. 


hands behind his back, along the paths which inter- 
sect the plateau at every turn, and are bordered by 
little walls of stone overgrown with the wild mul- 
berry. Most frequently he sat down on the sum- 
mit of a turfy gorge shaded by aspens and walnut 
trees ; an invisible thread of waters flows silently 
through it, but one can divine its traces by the 
freshness of the tall grass through which it passes. 
At other times he would ascend some hill-top, 
whence might be seen towards the south the long 
wavy line of the V entour, its turf burnt by the sun 
to a light yellowish tint like the skin of a young 
fawn. Often, too, seated on a block of stone, he 
chatted with an old gardener whom his father had 
liked; watching him as he turned over his garden 
beds with the spade, he would make the honest 
man talk, envying him in that, having received as 
a gift the fatal toy called life, he had discovered 
how to turn it to purpose. 

On one of the early days of July, Didier, going 
to M. Patru’s office, found the door closed. The 
notary had been summoned to the village of Ven- 
terol on some urgent business. Without much 
lamenting this accident, he crossed. the town and 
went to walk on the declivity *of the Mont de Yaux, 
which overlooks Nyons on the north. This is a 
fine mountain, with a wooded top, its sides streaked 
with whitish ravines separated by olive orchards. 
Didier followed a steep path, and at length halted 
in a cluster of young fir trees, near the dry bed of 
a torrent. The opposite bank was covered with 
big tufts of brilliantly green reeds. These great 
rushes of the south seem to ruminate like camels ; 
in the spring they lay in their provision of water, 
and their subsistence assured, they laugh at the 
droughts of summer and the infidelities of their 
mountain streams. At the slightest passing breeze, 
they wave their long distalfs and whisper mys- 


PROSPER. 


1 7 

teriously among themselves ; whoever knows how 
to listen to them will clearly hear them say : 
“ Brothers, we have drunk, and we will drink 
again.” 

At the end of a few moments, Didier heard foot- 
steps. He raised his eyes and perceived M. Patru, 
who had taken a cross cut to return from Venterol. 

“A thousand pardons,” exclaimed the notary. 
“ I am interrupting a delightful tete-a-tete ; but who 
the deuce could expect to find you here ? ” 

“A tete-a-tete ? n said Didier; “it seems to me 
that I am alone.” 

“ Alone with your idleness, and never was mis- 
tress more tenderly loved. God only knows what 
sweet things you were saying to her.” 

“You are unjust, M. Patru; I have this morn- 
ing written three letters of four pages each.” 

“ The Dickens ! after such an effort, a siesta of 
four hours in a pine wood is necessary to make a 
man of you again. Look you, just now,” contin- 
ued he ; “I don’t know how it chanced that I was 
thinking of you, and saying to myself that it was 
your misfortune to have come into the world too 
late. Some thirty years ago, dreamers, melancholy 
enthusiasts, and to make short, useless idlers, were 
the fashion in literature. To-day all is changed : 
in novels we find only ingenious, active people, 
and our modern theatrical heroes all end by estab- 
lishing a little factory. 

“ Romanticism is dead ; the Yankees are out 
models, and we are on the way to establish a 
society in which men shall be like good little 
machines, well wound up, well got up, warranted 
not to wear out, and operating at the eye and 
finger. Henceforth, when we wish to praise any 
one, we shall say : ‘ There is a fellow of sixty or 
a hundred horse-power.’ The man-piston ; this is 
our future ! And this is the moment you select 


8 


PROSPER. 


for revery on the border of the stream ! Your 
father understood the times better than you do. 
He might have folded his arms and lived like a 
Hidalgo in his castle ; but he passed his life in 
work, and in making his money work, and you may 
say it turned out pretty well for him.” 

“ You are right;” answered Didier ; “ and I see I 
must forever renounce the hope of being a hero of 
romance, for I feel wholly incapable of establishing 
the smallest factory.” 

“Who can tell? The surest way never to re- 
cover from one’s malady is to love it. You ought 
to follow a strict regimen. And, for example, if 
•you would attend to my prescriptions, I should 
begin by forbidding you all solitary walks, pine 
woods, and especially mountain streams. Look at 
this one ! What a miserable figure it makes ! 
A fly could hardly quench its thirst there ! That 
is because this stream is fed only by the rain from 
heaven; — it depends on the winds, the clouds; it 
is condemned to cry out for drink until the first 
autumn storms. N ow, on my way here, I crossed 
a brook which you can hear murmuring, and which 
the whole year through flows full to its brink 
between its two flowery banks. What matter to it 
whether, the wind blows from the north or the 
south ? It has its sure supplies, it springs from a 
source hidden somewhere under a rock, never dry- 
ing up. This may prove to you — ” 

“That you are an admirable preacher,” inter- 
rupted Didier ; “ that you have a talent for simile 
of the first order, and that the serious labors of a 
practical man are not irreconcilable with poetry.” 

“ I am really very good-natured to reason with 
you,” resumed M. Patru. “ I have my eloquence 
for my pains. Has anything ever been gained 
with a mind like yours by making speeches? I 
will let events speak ; they perform miracles when 


PROSPER. 


19 

they choose, and something might happen to you 
which — ” 

“ I am one of those people to whom nothing ever 
happens,” interrupted Didier again. “You like 
allegories. See how green these rushes are. Just 
now I was thinking that they are so happy as to 
believe in their torrent, and to expect it. As for 
me, I expect nothing.” 

M. Patru shook his large head. “ Bah ! ” said 
he ; “ so many things happen in this world ! Sup- 
pose, for example, that you make a sea voyage, 
that you fall into the hands of a pirate, that he 
sells you to some little negro prince of Soudan,, 
who will make you turn the mill ten hours a day. 
It is certain that at the end of two weeks of this 
regimen you would be another man.” 

“You make me shudder,” said Didier. “This is 
a case, I own, which I had never foreseen.” 

“ Suppose, again, that in your captivity you fall 
in love with some beautiful princess who returns 
your affection — ” 

“ Oh, I admit the pirate ; but I do not believe in 
love.” 

“ Have you ever believed in it ? ” 

“ I have believed in pleasure ; but I shall never 
be caught again.” 

M. Patru looked for an instant at Didier with an 
air of profound admiration. “ My respects to your 
melancholy ! ” exclaimed he, and made as if he 
were going away; but turning back, he approached 
the young man, struck him on the shoulder, and 
looking straight into his eyes, “ A propos ,” said he, 
“in a little while, I shall have an important com- 
munication to make to you.” 

“ From whom ? ” said Didier. “ From the pirate 
or the princess ? ” 

“Your father,” answered the notary, in a grave 
tone,” on his death-bed, intrusted me with his last 


20 


PROSPER. 


wishes, and charged me to make them known to 
you.” 

Didier rose abruptly. “What!” he exclaimed, 
in a tone of emotion ; “ my father in dying ex- 
pressed a last wish, a last desire ; he expects some- 
thing from me, and I only learn it now ! ” 

“ Calm yourself,” said M. Patru. “ You cannot 
teach an old notary his duty ; rest assured that I 
have faithfully carried out your father’s instruc- 
tions. Before revealing my secret to you, I was 
obliged to obtain some information. Some letters 
have been lost ; but I shall soon know all that is 
necessary. When the hour for speaking strikes, 
you shall know all. Adieu, my fine fellow ! re- 
sume your nap which I so roughly interrupted, and 
devote to the god of dreams the brief leisure 
remaining to you.” And as Didier sought to retain 
him, he disengaged himself quickly. “ I am in 
haste; I am waited for,” added he. “Do not try 
to follow me; we cannot go at the same pace.” 
And he sprang rapidly down the declivity, twirling 
his cane, and striking lustily at the pebbles on 
the way. Didier did not follow him ; he remained 
motionless in the middle of the path, recovering 
with difficulty from his emotion, and lost in a thou- 
sand absurd suppositions. He no longer saw either 
pine, rushes, or torrent. He was on the terrace at 
Elsinor. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The sun was setting as Didier, slowly retracing 
his steps, stopped for a few moments on the bridge 
of Aygues. This bridge, wdiich dates from the 
fourteenth century, surprises you by the original- 
ity of its construction. It is formed of one single 


PROSPER. 


21 


arch in the shape of an ass’s back thrown boldly 
over the bed of the river, and its precipitate slopes 
are inconveniently steep for carriages ; but, on the 
other hand, the effect is most picturesque. Didier 
leaned over the parapet, and looked by turns at the 
two banks of the Aygues, the one bordered by arti- 
ficial meadows planted with mulberry trees, the 
other overlooked by the precipices of the Guard, 
whose olive trees were steeped in a golden glow. 
The moon was peeping out from long, rosy clouds. 
The river, three quarters of whose bed was dry, 
went lazily seeking its way through islets of sand 
and gravel, showing now great shimmering pools 
which seemed to sleep in the shadow of the banks, 
now little threads of running water in which the 
warm tints of the sky were reflected. The distances 
showed soft and yet clear. Against the sky stood 
out in full relief the heights which follow the course 
of the Rhone, seen clearly through the glowing 
vapors of the horizon. Didier admired all this ; 
he only complained a little to himself because the 
river was troubled by sounds and voices. A troop 
of children were running along the shingle, utter- 
ing loud cries, and two big dogs were yelping at 
their heels ; some washerwomen were beating their 
linen, and with this noise mingled the crowing of 
cocks and the clapper of a mill. These sounds 
formed a discordant contrast with the silence of all 
things else, and the grand, tranquil harmonies of 
the lingering light; so, at least, thought Didier. 

The rumbling of carriage-wheels made him turn 
his head. An elegant caliche had just come quickly 
up one side of the bridge. At the top the horse 
took fright, reared, and appeared about to run. 
The driver, a young rustic, new to his business, lost 
his head, and increased the danger by his awkward- 
ness. Didier threw himself with one bound at the 
head of the horse, succeeded in mastering him, and 


22 


PROSPER. 


accompanied him, holding the bridle, as far as 
the end of the bridge. There, turning abruptly 
around, he looked into the carriage, and perceived 
two women, — strangers, to whom he bowed slight- 
ly. The eldest, who was pale with fright, b 3gan, 
screaming at the top of her voice, to scold the 
coachman roundly for his inexperience and clumsi- 
ness. Didier was about to make his escape ; but 
the younger lady, who had preserved all her cool- 
ness, leaned towards him and addressed him some 
words of thanks, to which he was constrained to 
reply. He bowed again, and was withdrawing, 
when the first clerk of M. Patru called to him by 
name, and having overtaken him, put into his hands 
a letter which the notary had just received for him. 
On hearing the name of De Peyrols pronounced, 
the two women exchanged a look. 

“ Monsieur Didier,” cried out the youngest, open- 
ing the door of the carriage, “ you are our prisoner. 
Be good enough to sit here opposite me ; on the 
way you will try to find out our names from our 
faces.” 

“ Get in at once ! ” added her companion, smiling 
at the astonished air of the young man ; “ but not 
one question. Consult only your eyes and your 
memory; we shall see whether you have inherited 
the keen and penetrating intelligence of your poor 
father.” 

After an instant’s hesitation, Didier obeyed. The 
coachman was ordered to walk his horse through 
the town. Folding his arms, Didier looked atten- 
tively at the two women, who smiled without utter- 
ing another word. One of them had wonderful 
gray eyes with a tawny shade in them of an inde- 
finable hue ; an expression of exquisite sweetness ; 
abundant hair of a warm brown, ^ inclining towards 
red (that hair which Giorgion^ loved), and the 
clear complexion which accompanies such locks. 


PROSPER. 


23 

“ Here are some strange eyes which I think I have 
seen before,” said Didier to himself ; his desire not 
to pass for a fool helping him to shake off his in- 
difference. “ In reality they are gray, but there is 
a golden tinge in the look as well as in the hair. 
Has not the Lope de Yega named one of his hero- 
ines ‘ the F air One with the Golden Eyes 5 ? As- 
suredly this is no Spanish woman seated here oppo- 
site me ; the lower part of her face proves it. 
French beauty is never so regular as to leave noth- 
ing imperfect in the face. This person is some 
one who has lived long out of France ; in Spanish 
America, say at Lima.” Then turning towards the 
other woman, who, stooping her head, had with- 
drawn into the corner of the carriage, and making 
play both with eye and fan, seemed to be anxiously 
awaiting his verdict. “ A pretty, but unmeaning 
face,” said he ; “a very coquettish head-dress, a 
trifle of rouge on each cheek, little cajoling ways 
and graces which seem to have seen service, eyes 
which have seen everything, and pretend to be 
ignorant of all things ; this is a woman who is 
regretfully approaching the fatal age, a mother who, 
if I mistake not, would willingly have me take her 
for the elder sister of her daughter, and who is 
trembling lest I guess aright. Let us be just. Her 
mouth is charming, and puts me in mind of a cer- 
tain miniature of my mother painted on enamel.” 
At this moment the carriage was crossing the herb- 
market. 

“ Well, monsieur,” said the beauty with the gol- 
den eyes ; “ have you got it yet, or must we help 
you ? ” 

“ Cousin,” answered Didier, “ welcome back to 
our Country ! As for you, madam,” added he, in a 
tone which was slightly ironical, “ I should not 
dare to affirm that you are the mother of my 
cousin, were I not certain that you are the youngest 


24 


PROSPER. 


sister of my mother.” It is not surprising that 
Didier had only an indistinct remembrance of his 
cousin, Madame d’Azado, and of his aunt, Madame 
Brehanme; He was still very young when the 
latter, who had married a merchant of Marseilles, 
was carried off by him to Lima. Although, since 
then, she had made some visits to Europe, and had 
stayed from time to time in Paris, Didier had never 
chanced to encounter her. As to his cousin, it was 
all he could do to remember a little girl with whom 
he had sometimes played a game of ball or of lotto ; 
all that he knew about her was, that at seventeen 
she 'had been married to an old Spanish marquis as 
low in his finances as he was poor in brains, and 
who had nothing in his favor except his title. A 
short time after his marriage, M. d’Azado had 
shown symptoms of mental aberration ; he soon 
became hopelessly insane, and his friends were 
obliged to send him to a hospital, whore he died. 
Some months before this, a malignant fever had 
carried off M. Br6hanne. Becoming widows almost 
at the same time, the daughter and mother, their 
term of mourning completed, had embarked for 
Europe ; the one because she had always regretted 
France, and was in haste to escape from the sad 
recollections which redoubled her aversion for 
Peru ; the other because she was resolved not to 
remain a widow ; and also, because, to tell the 
whole truth, having made herself much talked 
about at Lima, she would have found it easier for 
herself there to procure a consoler than a husband 
after her liking. 

Didier had come successfully out of the trial to 
which he had been put ; Madame Brehanne felt 
obliged to him for finding her too young to be the 
mother of a daughter of twenty-four. From that mo- 
ment he had her good-will ! She began to talk with 
effusion of his late father, for whom she had never 


PROSPER. 


25 


/ 

cared, and to whom she had for years given no 
sign of life. This affectation of sensibility froze np 
Didier, who hastened to change the conversation. 
When the carriage had reached the low% end of 
the avenue which leads to the Villa of the Three 
Plane Trees, he prepared to beat a retreat ; but his 
cousin retained him, saying in a tone of graceful 
authority : “ Be amiable to the end, monsieur. 
You must stay and dine with us. I have f<?und 
my poor father’s home in a state of dilapidation 
which breaks my heart. I must have some repairs 
made, and I should be very glad to consult you 
about them.” Didier would have much liked to 
excuse himself, but he dared not. He repressed 
a yawn, and placed himself under his cousin’s 
orders. 

This Villa of the Three Plane Trees, which Mad- 
ame d’Azado had inherited from her father, is 
celebrated for three leagues around, by reason of 
the rare beauty of the terrace which lies before it 
on the south. At the entrance is a little thicket of 
laurel trees which reach up to the roof ; towards 
the middle two marble fountains disgorge in big 
bubbles from their mossy mouths water as pure as 
crystal ; they are shaded by three gigantic plane 
trees, the like of which it would be hard to find, 
and which are visible from every direction. This 
terrace, bordered by a high wall overgrown with 
vines and climbing rose trees, is terminated by an 
alley of box, which meets overhead, and forms a 
thick cover. Behind the house extends a garden 
raying out in the shape of a star around a thick 
block of cypress. Towards the front, a fine kitchen 
garden and a plantation of olive trees descend to 
the highway. The grounds belonging to the house 
had been rented, the orchard and even the garden 
were in good condition ; but the house, which had 
remained uninhabited for sixteen years, showed the 
2 


2 6 


PROSPER. 


effects of its long desertion. There were even 
some chinks to he seen which disturbed Madame 
d’Azado ; she feared that the old mansion to which 
her father had so often taken her as a summer 
resort during her childhood, might have to be 
pulled down. Didier pointed out to her that she 
was exaggerating the injury, that the walls and 
flooring were still solid, and that only a few repairs 
would be needed to make of the abandoned villa, 
if not a palace, at least a comfortable dwelling. 
Before night had closed in, he had found time to 
examine everything, from cellar to attic, and he 
replied so pertinently to all his cousin’s questions, 
and gave her so wise counsels, that she was quite 
enchanted, and took him for something very differ- 
ent from what he was. To tell the truth, she knew 
him as yet only by the presence of mind and dex- 
terity he had shown in stopping a horse about to 
run away. This man, so prompt and resolute in 
action, was also a man of good judgment, and very 
expert in the matter of masonry and estimates. 
Who could imagine while hearing him reason so 
well and in so easy a tone, that each word cost 
his laziness dear, and that he was secretly saying 
to himself, “ Heavens, how tiresome all this is to 
me, and how I should like to be rid of it ! ” 

During this conversation, Madame Brehanne had 
retired to her apartment, and was being touched 
up by her waiting-maid. She appeared in the din- 
ing-room with a toilet most extravagant for the 
occasion, and which must have astonished the old 
walls with their torn hangings and the spiders’ 
webs which garnished the cornices. The meal was 
a silent one. Didier was resting after the effort he 
had made ; Lucile pensive ; her mother at every 
instant looked with an anxious eye at the ceiling, 
as if the sword of Damocles was suspended over 
her head. After dinner, Madame d’Azado having 


PROSPER . 


27 


gone out to give some orders, “ Heigh ho ! ” ex- 
claimed Madame Brehanne, throwing herself back 
into an arm-chair ; “ what strange mania has in- 
duced my daughter to come and bury herself in 
this old pile ? You may say what you like, mon- 
sieur ; but you will try in vain to convince me ; 
these walls are not solid ; it seems to me every 
moment that a beam will come tumbling down on 
my head.” 

“ That is an idea you must stick to, madam. It 
will be for you a source of ever fresh emotion ; so 
long as you think of this beam you can never be 
bored.” 

“ Spiders and tottering beams ! ” she resumed. 
“ Would you believe that for two years your cousin 
has thought of nothing but this house of the Three 
Plane Trees ? She spoke of it as of an Eldorado. 
She used to play hide-and-seek here. That is a 
fine reason ! Just imagine ; she has an income of 
fifty thousand francs. With that one can live any- 
where. The hard part of it is, that she has no 
desires of the imagination. I can warrant her for 
the most practical-minded woman on earth ; the 
occupation of governing a household, of keeping 
house, would be enough for her, were she buried 
in the depths of the forest. I implore you, mon- 
sieur, to come to my aid ; prove to her that one 
can only live in Paris.” 

“ I am not qualified to charge myself with this 
demonstration,” replied Didier. “I think it mat- 
ters little where one lives. There are plenty of 
spiders everywhere, and tottering beams also.” 

“ Oh, you must have some heart troubles. You 
must tell me all about it. Such conversation will 
help us to kill time. Indeed you have no curiosity. 
You don’t ask me why I have followed my daugh- 
ter. What can I say? a woman cannot go and 
establish herself at Paris all alone, when she does 


28 


PROSPER. 


not know a living soul there. I have stayed there 
formerly, but I passed my days in running from 
one shop to another. M. Brehanne sent me to 
France to renew my toilets there. The dress of a 
merchant’s wife is a sort of advertisement for her 
husband. In deference to his wishes, I came back 
to the hotel every evening, exhausted with fatigue, 
my hands full and purse empty, but with the sweet 
satisfaction of having done my duty ! Adieu to all 
shopping ! here I am dead and buried. Ah, for 
pity’s sake, what amusement can one find in your 
ugly Nyons? is there any society? are there any 
people to see ? ” 

“There are at Nyons,” Didier tranquilly replied, 
“very nice, good people, who are comfortable at 
home, and rarely go out. However, in the even- 
ing when it is moonlight, there are some who walk 
on the road to Orange ; they go on as far as the 
little stone bridge you saw near here, and then 
turn homewards again. This life and the moon- 
light please me. I defy you to find better any- 
w T here. I must add that every year in the month 
of August we celebrate a votive festival ; it begins 
with a torchlight procession ; on the last day there 
is climbing on greased poles, the games of throt- 
tling the cat, of — ” 

“You make me shudder,” said she. “I foresee 
that I shall be driven to frenzy with ennui. Before 
long I shall cry out for a fire, a massacre, a good 
assault and battery with knives.” 

“Alas ! madam,” interrupted he; “you sport with 
misfortune. Our neighbors of the Comtat get up 
these things sometimes ; but in the Drome the 
people are laborious, sober, and mild in their hab- 
its ; they massacre each other as little as possible. 
Nevertheless you must not be so easily discouraged 
and give up everything. You may end by taking 
a fancy to our moonlight.” 


PROSPER. 


29 


“Truly your coolness fills me with consternation. 
Swear to me at least that you will come often to 
see us. We will talk together, and tell each other 
our troubles.” 

“ But I live in ennui as a fish does in water,” 
said he. “It is my element. Judge then if I am 
the person to amuse a pretty woman.” 

She thanked him for this last word with a look 
which said plainly : “Ah, my handsome nephew, 
one might take the trouble to tame you.” “After 
all,” she resumed; I have accepted this fine estab- 
lishment only on trial ; I promise nothing ; hunger 
will drive the wolf from the forest.” 

At this moment Lucile re-entered. “ Oh, oh ; 
what a threat,” said she. “ Cousin, will you render 
me one more service ? Employ all your eloquence 
to persuade my mother that this house is not a 
miserable hut, as she pretends it is ; that our mice 
will soon be more afraid of us than we are of them, 
and that a fine moonlight night is more beautiful 
to look upon than all the lamps of the Grand 
Opera.” 

“ All that I can affirm,” answered Didier, “ is 
that at Nyons one is almost as sure as anywhere 
else of getting through the day, and that I think is 
the main point.” 

“ No,” she replied, hastily; “ that is not the main 
point, and it is an unkind speech on your part. 
To punish you I have half a mind to condemn you 
to a game of lotto with me. IIow that would bring 
me back to my youth ! Do better — propose a 
game of ecart6 to my mother ; she will be very 
much obliged to you.” 

Didier could not help feeling that his good nature 
was abused. Lucile rang for cards, he shuffled 
them with a discontented air, and the game began. 
While playing, he thought he perceived that his 
cousin was observing him curiously; several times 


PROSPER. 


30 

he met her eye fixed on him. All at once an idea 
jumped into his mind, so to speak, and the shock 
was so sudden that he felt a species of terror. His 
brow grew gloomy, he thought no more of the 
game, committed one blunder after another, mak- 
ing Madame Brehanne angry and Lucile amused. 
Having lost three games in succession, he took his 
hat and cane, and a hasty leave. 


CHAPTER V. 

Foe several days Didier could think but of one 
thing. As if from the effects of a sudden inspira- 
tion, he had taken it into his head, while playing 
ecarte, that his father had conceived the project 
of marrying him to his cousin, and that, when 
dying, he had begged M. Patru to work secretly 
for this marriage. “ My father,” said he to him- 
self, “ desired very much to see me established, 
that was his word ; he longed to have me choose a 
fixed profession. Perhaps during my absence he 
had got wind of the approaching return of Madame 
d’Azado ; perhaps they had even written to each 
other, and he had imparted this wish to her. In all 
things he went straight to the point. 4 Go ahead 5 
was his motto. M. Patru has been charged with 
negotiating the preliminaries. When the pear is 
ripe he will break his mysterious silence, and will 
go to work with me seriously ; ” and Didier grew 
indignant over this dark plot undertaken against 
his liberty ; he felt a profound aversion to mar- 
riage. 

“ If,” said he to himself again, “ my father had 
recommended to me on his death-bed some affair 
in which his honor was engaged, or some of those 


PROSPER. 


31 


interests which were dear to him in this world, his 
last wish would have been sacred to me, but in this 
there is only a question of my own happiness, of 
which I am entirely the best judge.” He was de- 
termined to make a good defence. A corsair was 
chasing him, and he would set all sail to make his 
escape. 

He tried to bring M. Patru to speak, but found 
him impenetrable ; one day, however, Didier met 
him as he was just leaving the villa of the Three 
Plane Trees. The notary pretended that he had 
come to confer with Madame d’Azado about some 
little difficulties she had experienced with her ten- 
ants, and the settlement of which she had intrusted 
to him ; he set out from that to make to Didier 
the most eloquent eulogy of his cousin. “ That is 
a woman of head,” said he ; “ and of heart, too ; 
two sorts of merit which do not often go together. 
She understands as much of business as is suitable 
for women, neither too much nor too little ; she is 
neither a gossip nor a practitioner in petticoats. 
She has a talent for interrogating, and knows how 
to profit by good advice ; but she needs some one 
to direct her. I suspect her of having more energy 
of feeling than of will ; and I like a woman to be 
so, to think with her heart, and take her ideas 
from those whom she loves. Is it not a pity 
that so charming a creature should have been 
thrown away on -an old idiot ? However, he is 
dead ; may the earth lie lightly on him ! Truly, 
your cousin has had very little luck in life. I 
think there never was a girl so unfortunate in her 
parents. Her father was a fool of the first order, 
led entirely by vanity ; one of those men who take 
the greatest pains to avoid happiness. As for her 
mother, we will not speak of her ; she is a regular 
simpleton, an insupportable minx. It seems she 
has had some love affairs which do little honor to 


32 


PROSPER. 


her taste. Stories from over the water accuse her 
of having committed all sorts of follies for an 
uncouth fellow, ugly in face and figure, about 
whom she was crazy. My opinion is that Madame 
d’Azado came to shut her up here at Nyons, and 
keep her within proper hounds. What a delight- 
ful thing for a daughter not to he able to trust her 
mother out of her sight ! Luckily your cousin is 
not one of those luxurious little women who pet up 
their nerves, and think of nothing else ; she takes 
life as it is, and time as it passes. She does not 
indulge in reverie, nor cling to her troubles, hut 
tries bravely to forget them, and all that pleases 
me. I want women to use their imagination only 
to help them to live, as the ostrich stretches her 
wings only to help her in running more swiftly.” 

“ How you are exciting yourself ! ” answered 
Didier ; “ I promise not to repeat to Madame 
Patru one word of all you have just said ; she 
might take your enthusiasm in had part.” 

“ Note, I beg you, that if I praise your cousin’s 
good sense, I have not said one word about her 
eyes, which nevertheless deserve to he celebrated 
in prose and in verse. I leave to you the care of 
defining their color.” 

“ My cousin,” said Didier, “ asked me for some 
advice concerning the repairs she is about to make 
in her house ; but I do not trouble myself about 
the color of her eyes. That is no part of my duty, 
and, shall I confess it ? it has never occurred to 
me either that, like the ostrich, she only uses her 
wings in order to run better. I thank you for tell- 
ing me of it.” 

M. Patru raised his arms toward heaven. “Woe 
to the ironical ! ” exclaimed he, with the tone of a 
prophet. “ Sooner or later they will regret what 
they have despised.” The suspicions which he had 
conceived, caused Didier, whose anxiety triumphed 


PROSPER. 


33 


over his indifference, to observe his cousin much 
more closely, as one watches an approaching danger. 
To excuse this in his own eyes, he said to himself, 
that on the day when M. Patru should appear at the 
Guard in full state, and demand of him “ What 
objection can you make to the marriage which your 
father wished for ? ” it would be a good thing to 
have some reply ready. 

One evening Didier took from his desk a journal 
to which he sometimes confided his thoughts, and, 
like a lawyer who jots down, on paper some notes 
to be used later in his argument, he wrote what 
follows : 

“ I have seen Madame d’Azado to-day for the 
fifth time since her arrival. We talked together 
first about masons, as usual, and then of poetry, 
painting, who knows what ? When I say we talked, 
I mean that she questioned me and I answered. 
If I had been sure that she was only studying me, 
I should not have found a word to say ; but she 
claims that she has been asleep sixteen years at 
Lima. Her native air has roused her ; she wishes 
to regain the time lost, and disentangle herself from 
her ignorance. Why has she not at hand a better 
instructor than I am ? I like music, but were I 
obliged to speak of it for even a quarter of an hour 
every day, I should soon take a disgust to it. Of 
what use is it to talk ? Are there in the whole 
world two souls which understand one another ; 
two minds for which words have the same mean- 
ing ? Madame d’Azado is attractive ; that is a 
justice one must render her. Her attraction con- 
sists especially in a singular contrast about her. 
Tall, well-made, with the figure and bearing of a 
queen, her head most magnificently crowned with 
the most beautiful hair in the world, it would be 
easy for her to have an imposing air ; she could 
easily, too, have a mocking or a severe air ; she 
2 * 


34 


PROSPER. 


understands raillery, and spares neither people nor 
things which displease her. When you put her on 
this chapter, she has a most speaking vivacity of 
movement, a certain way of raising her arm and 
letting it fall, which expresses marvellously the 
crushing weight of contempt. And, nevertheless, 
an exquisite sweetness pervades her whole presence ; 
one is thankful to her for it, because, as it seems, 
she might be otherwise ; she is made to be haughty, 
and though bora to intimidate, has a constant fear 
of displeasing. This charm of sweetness with which 
she is impregnated, is especially marked in the 
sound of her voice, and even more in her gray eyes 
with their golden shades. Her lingering looks 
question and caress at the same time ; it seems as 
though her soul were interrogating yours, and seek- 
ing to divine what is passing there, not through 
curiosity, but in order to attune itself to yours, and 
be in accord with it. I will add but one word ; 
when she comes towards you, you always feel an 
agreeable emotion ; it seems as if something were 
happening. Assuredly this portrait has not been 
traced by the hand of an enemy. I confess to you, 
my dear notary, that I feel some liking for my 
cousin ; I agree, too, that the fate of that some 
one whom she will love appears to me worthy of 
envy, for she is one of those women who give 
themselves without reserve and forever ; she will 
be what love makes her ; there is something in her, 
vague, fluctuating, incomplete, which will be clear 
and fixed only when her heart speaks and appoints 
her destiny ; yes, I have a liking for her, and if I 
knew a man who had not, as I have, an instinctive 
and irresistible aversion to all engagements, a man 
who was capable of loving and of being loved, I 
would say to him : ‘ Try to obtain the heart of this 
woman ; you will be her god, and provided the 
god allows himself to be adored in the way that 


PROSPER. 


35 

she understands adoration, the priestess will be 
content.’ 

“ Madame d’x\zado has qualities which would have 
pleased my father ; he would have appreciated her 
good sense, her strong sound judgment. He did 
not admit the idea of women being only articles of 
luxury ; he demanded of them before everything, that 
they should understand household affairs, know 
how to keep house, and employ their imagination 
in gathering from the most ordinary incidents of 
life resources against ennui. In this respect, 
Madame d’Azado leaves nothing to be desired I 
see her struggling with her housekeeping cares, 
which are many ; she is wonderful at directing 
work, the hours never hang heavy on her hands ; 
always looking free from care and at ease, a smile 
on her lips, no lassitude, no impatience or over- 
haste, and a very just sense of the fitness of things ; 
a mind clear and calm, which looks dispassionately 
on everything — never decides lightly, but of two 
opinions, discerns and chooses the best. I think it 
would be hard to find a woman less romantic. If 
she indulges in reverie, it is always about what she 
is doing or has to do ; she never harbors useless 
thoughts ; whatever happens to her, or whatever 
she proposes to herself, her wishes never extend 
beyond what is possible. How could I ever get 
on with her ? I, who have never loved save that 
which is not, nor ever longed except for that which 
cannot be ? 

“ There is one thing, however, which my father, 
if better informed, could never have pardoned 
Madame d’Azado ; that is her marriage. At seven- 
teen she espoused an old man in his dotage. How 
will you justify your client, M. Patru ? Will you 
say that she was besieged, tormented, that her con- 
sent was extorted or torn from her ? Neverthe- 
less, she did consent. I imagine, too, that she did 


PROSPER. 


36 

not resist long. This yielding nature, whose easi- 
ness is its charm, must have* an inclination to aban- 
don itself to events ; she must have found decisive 
reasons for persuading herself that it was her duty 
to yield, and, her vanity assisting her, she married 
this doting old marquis. I know very well that 
she has forgotten that she is a marchioness, and 
does not like to have it recalled to her ; she sulks at 
the plaything which cost her so dear, but she does 
not seem to reproach herself with anything. No 
woman has ever been known sincerely to despise 
the vanities of the world. The most romantic are 
still the wisest, at least they put a high price on 
their caprices ; others, for want of a cloud to float 
on, take refuge in knick-knacks, dress their dolls, 
put them to sleep, make them talk. Some unlucky 
accident has broken Madame d’Azado’s doll. Let 
us hope she has found something in exchange for it. 

“ Her misfortune is not to have a fixed age. Is 
she a young girl ? Is she a woman ? She has been 
married, but for so brief a space ! If one may 
judge from her face, she is twenty. What says 
her heart ? what say her memories ? She is a 
household swept and garnished, and spirits come to 
it. She made her entrance into life with a cal- 
culation, and for .seven years a sinister old age 
enveloped her in its shadow ; there is something 
in that to take all freshness out of life. I think 
she tries to escape from her recollections ; she 
would like to forget ; she started badly and would 
like to start over again. But that is asking a mir- 
acle ; never has butterfly obtained from Heaven 
the power to re-enter its chrysalis. There is only 
one thing which really belongs to us in this world, 
and that is our past. Impossible to shake it off. 
However, if Madame d’Azado could have the good 
luck to meet some handsome fellow whose fancies 
and tastes were youthful, and whose senses were 


PROSPER . 


37 


unblunted, the desired miracle might perhaps be 
accomplished, calculation having gone badly .with 
her. She now feels a thirst for love, and she will 
love passionately, devotedly. She has discovered 
somewhat late that she is made for that. A love 
returned would be her fountain of youth. May 
her wish be accomplished. Suitors will not be 
wanting. I think I can perceive that people are 
occupying themselves with her ; I often hear her 
name pronounced under the arcades ; more than 
one bold huntsman is preparing to take aim at her. 
But the fine fellow must not be a rascal. 

“ I find in a letter which my father wrote to me 
about eighteen months ago the following lines : 
‘ W e must think seriously of your marriage, Didier. 
In the provinces marriage is an obligation. I desire 
for you a woman of few fancies, much principle, 
and even more health.’ Such was his programme. 
Madame d’Azado’s good health is unquestionable; 
but as to her having many principles, where should 
she have got them ? When one is the daughter of 
Madame Brehanne — I think I know her ; her heart 
governs her ; her conscience will be that of the 
man she loves; she will see only through his eyes; 
and in her eyes what he approves will be good, and 
what he condemns, bad. In the meantime she has 
only tastes and distastes. What possessed my 
father to demand principles of women ? What 
should they do with them ? He had not read 
La Bruy^re. Most women 4 have hardly any prin- 
ciples, they are guided by their hearts, and depend 
both for their morals and their opinions on those 
whom they love.’ Women were invented solely to 
save us from ennui ; their smile is an enchanting 
falsehood, the promise of an impossible felicity, and 
the prize belongs by right to the one who lies best. 
Very foolish is he who takes them seriously ! These 
reeds will pierce the hand which leans upon them. 


PROSPER. 


38 

Far wiser is the man who seeks in their presence 
some moments of intoxication and delirium. Wis- 
est of all, he who is content to inhale their "beauty 
in passing, as one breathes the perfume of a flower ! 
But I am not always sensible to beauty. Some- 
times I cannot lend myself to the illusion; I per- 
ceive distinctly the skeleton frame of the firework.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

One morning as Didier stood at his window, he 
perceived on the border of a grove of olive-trees 
M. Patru, Madame Br6hanne and her daughter, 
mounted on mules, and approaching the Chateau 
of the Needle. He made a gesture of annoyance, 
but did not, however, forget to adjust his cravat 
which had become loosened; he then went out to 
meet the little cavalcade. “Are they coming to 
take possession,” thought he, “ or only to draw up 
an inventory ? ” 

“I bring you good company,” cried M. Patru 
from afar. “ These ladies have long been curious 
to visit your hermitage, but they scrupled to run 
down the hare in its form. I have reassured them. 
Come, have the necks of a couple of ducks wrung'at 
once; even if they prove tough, there is no sauce 
like appetite, and the air of the Guard makes the 
stomach hollow.” 

Unfortunately that day Didier had a headache, 
or at least something which he called by that name, 
for his headaches were of a peculiar species; they 
consisted in a fit of timidity and exaggerated shy- 
ness. 

He was. certainly not timid after the fashion of 
people who feel themselves small, and others im- 


PROSPER. 


39 


posing; but there were days when he felt himself 
so much out of tune with everything which sur- 
rounded him, that the effort of keeping up conver- 
sation was insupportable to him. The simplest 
question, some stupid compliment to which he must 
reply by another, would throw him into utter em- 
barrassment; he found nothing to say, words would 
not come, he stopped short and feared he was look- 
ing like an idiot. And notwithstanding, he could 
have found matter for discourse, he felt ideas rush 
together in his head; but it would seem to him at 
such times that they were not clear, that they had 
no currency in the world, and that it would not 
answer to make use of them to keep up a conversa- 
tion. In short, he felt like a man who wished to 
make some trifling purchases, having in his pocket 
only bank notes which he could not get changed. 
When his headache seized him, Didier generally 
remained at home; or, if he was forced to go out, 
avoided the beaten track ; if despite all his precau- 
tions he could not avoid some tiresome meeting, he 
would shut himself up in a frigid reserve, which 
kept at a distance all questioners and compliment 
makers. If an importunate individual insisted on 
entering into conversation, he would speedily dis- 
concert him by a few words of dry and bitter irony, 
which seemed to belie his habitual courtesy, and 
which were only an expedient for covering his own 
embarrassment. There are people whom the fear 
of being frightened renders aggressive. Didier 
made an effort to conceal his headache ; he shook 
the notary by the hand, saluted his aunt and cousin 
graciously, and hastened to give orders for break- 
fast. As soon as he had returned, Madame Bre- 
hanne seized upon him, fastened on his arm, and 
drawing him into an alley of the garden, assailed 
him with the usual narratives and questions. Dur- 
ing the two months she had spent at Nyons she had 


40 


PROSPER. 


not wasted her time; she had gone about making 
herself acquainted with the affairs, great and small, 
of the district; she had at her fingers’ ends fami- 
lies, houses, relationships, fortunes, the extent and 
revenue of estates, births and deaths, certain mar- 
riages, marriages probable and possible. It follows 
as a matter of course that all this investigation was 
intended to -help her to resolve the only question 
which interested her: “ Could such a woman as I 
am find anything to suit her in a neighborhood like 
this?” On more than one point she still had 
doubts and ignorances ; she asked Didier to clear 
them up for her. He replied at random, while he 
gazed upon the enormous bird of paradise in her 
bonnet, and committed such blunders that she was 
quite stupefied. “ But what are you talking about ? ” 
she exclaimed. “ Where do you come from ? Can 
you be ignorant that — Must I come from Peru to 
inform you? Really, you have fallen from the 
moon.” 

“Yes, madam,” said Didier, who would have 
liked to go back there. 

Meanwhile Lucile, under the guidance of the 
notary, was making the tour of the domain; she 
inspected with a curious eye the fields, the orchard, 
the buildings. One might have thought, in fact, 
that she was drawing up an inventory; but it was 
an inventory of recollections. Everything she 
looked upon awakened in her memory confused 
images which it pleased her to unravel. She recog- 
nized (or so she fancied) the trellis from which she 
had gathered grapes, an old twisted olive-tree which 
she had often tried to climb, a bit of turf on which 
she had rolled, a dove-cote, only to be reached by 
a shaky old ladder, a little black turret, in which 
her cousin had shut her up one day, and where she 
had been terribly frightened. The sky was radiant, 
and her childhood seemed to hum about her like a 


PROSPER. 


41 


bee. While pleasing herself with these memories, 
she was all the time admiring the order, the truly 
Dutch neatness which reigned everywhere, even in 
the stables and poultry yard. She could not help 
showing her astonishment at this to M. Patru. 

“You hold up my cousin as a dreamer,” said she 
to him. “ I see that he is a finished master in the 
art of governing a household. We might look in 
vain for three leagues around to find a place better 
kept up than his.” 

“ Your uncle,” answered M. Patru, “ was the first 
man in the world for training servants. He had 
Argus eyes, a loud voice, and in his angry moods, 
which luckily were rare, gusts of temper, which 
made all around him tremble. Every one obeyed 
his nod. Your cousin pursues a different method: 
he makes every one worship him. He has inher- 
ited from his father a valet, who would let himself 
be cut into little pieces for him; the man fell ill 
last year, and Didier sat up with him six nights. 
Our good youth is not liked by every one: his 
coldness of manner makes him enemies among his 
equals. On the other hand, lesser people bear him 
in their heart, and are devoted to him, even to 
fanaticism. Spending nothing on himself, he gives 
to every comer; his money slips through his hands. 
Your cousin is a queer piece; unfortunately he is 
an unloaded piece. Let him some day become en- 
thusiastic over something, be it a folly or a mad- 
ness, and he will turn out a perfect man.” 

“ You reproach him with his indifference; per- 
haps that is what makes him happy.” 

“Keep in mind, dear madam, that indifference 
has never made any one happy. Without passions, 
small or great, life is a foolish way of passing one’s 
time. Do you know what I should wish for this 
unhappy boy ? Some great disappointment which 
shall make him very angry. I should like to have 


42 


PROSPER. 


some kind soul play a villanous trick on him; 
nothing stirs up the blood like rage at having been 
duped; no amount of indifference can hold out 
against that. Let him be violently angry for once 
in his life, and I answer for his cure.” 

“ I see you are in favor of violent remedies.” 

“ There are milder ones which might be essayed,” 
answered he in a tone of gallantry — “ love , tliou 
didst ruin Troy , but thou couldst save Didier. 
You have eyes, madam, which I believe capable of 
accomplishing miracles.” 

“ Oh, do not pay me empty compliments,” said 
she ; and then added, laughing : “ I am willing to 
believe that my eyes are beautiful, but if you were 
frank, you would charge them with the same defect 
as that with which you reproach my cousin. They 
are not loaded .” 

Breakfast was announced. At table the notary 
supplied all the conversation. Madame Brehanne, 
who generally liked to talk to him, listened with 
only a divided attention; she was absorbed in 
thought ; the fineness of the linen, the beauty of the 
china, the rich look of the silver, had struck her 
with admiration; she gave herself up to calcula- 
tions and was drawing conclusions. For the rest, 
M. Patru did not need any one’s help; he abounded 
in pleasantries not always seasoned with Attic salt. 
At this moment his jovial humor was sovereignly 
displeasing to Didier; he felt his headache, already 
exasperated by the cackling of Madame Brehanne, 
driving, as it were, sharp claws into his temples. 
At dessert M. Patru began to recite verses after his 
fashion, among others an Epithalamium, which 
began thus : 

“Love, marriage, and nature my song shall recount, 

God of verse ! lend me Pegasus, just for a mount.” 

The remainder may be judged by the beauty of 


PROSPER. 


43 


this opening. These Alexandrines gave the finish- 
ing stroke to Didier ; he had already heard them 
twice. 

On leaving the table, Madame Brehanne led the 
notary into the garden, and went to sit down with 
him in an arbor at the end of the terrace. Before 
following them, Madame d’Azado stopped to exam- 
ine the portraits of M. and Madame de Peyrols, 
large oil paintings, which filled two recesses in the 
drawing-room. She was struck with the contrast 
presented by these two faces, the one with laugh- 
ing eyes and strongly marked features, the other 
pallid, with an expression of suffering, but stamped 
with a melancholy grace which attracted the be- 
holder. 

Seated near her, Didier kept his eyes riveted upon 
Madame Brehanne’s bonnet with its great bird of 
paradise, which she had left in a corner of the sofa. 
“ How much you resemble your mother,” said Lu- 
cile to him at last. 

“ That is a compliment which has been often paid 
me,” answered he. “Besides, there is a saying 
that mothers make their sons, and fathers their 
daughters, but there is this difference between my 
poor mother and myself, that she died of a lan- 
guishing malady, and that I live on it. I am an 
invalid who is in good health, and I foresee that 
my melancholy will die an octogenarian.” 

“Why do you talk of melancholy?” said she. 
“ You have lost what you have loved best in the 
world, and it is natural.” 

“ Oh, believe me, I was sad before I had lost any- 
thing, and my sadness will outlive my griefs. I 
have a very quick sense of hearing; just now, 
before breakfast, I seized, in passing, a few words 
which M. Patru was saying to you. Tell him from 
me that my melancholy is in the blood, that all the 
medicines in the world will have no effect on it.” 


,44 


PROSPER. 


Lucile was embarrassed; she blushed ; she asked 
herself what were the precise words Didier had 
caught in passing. * 44 Look at my father’s portrait,” 
continued he, dryly. “ How one feels that this was 
a man who liked living ! Every morning he awoke 
with a new project and a new hope. There is Life 
at its outset ! ” added he, pointing at the portrait 
with his finger, and then striking his own forehead, 
44 and here it is at its return.” 

“What evil star are you under to-day?” said 
she in a grave, sweet tone of voice. 

“Read,” he resumed, “the volume of Shake- 
speare I lent you. You will see there that Hamlet 
was mad when the wind blew from the north-north- 
east. My humor is variable ; there are days when 
I feel myself incapable of singing 4 love, marriage, 
and nature,’ — but it is wrong in me to disturb with 
my wicked words a woman who, like you, has good 
reasons for believing in happiness.” 

She became very serious. 44 Are you very much 
bent,” asked she, in a tone of reproach, 44 on recall- 
ing my misfortunes to me ? ” 

44 God forbid! Women have the admirable gift 
of mastering their recollections when they please; 
they remember the games of lotto they played 
with their cousin in their tenderest infancy, or they 
forget what they did or promised the evening 
before. This is an advantage we men do not pos- 
sess. Nature has not enabled us to forget at dis- 
cretion.” 

She fixed upon him a look at once fearless and 
candid. 44 Why do you speak to me in so bitter a 
tone?” asked she. 44 Yes, I do try to throw aside 
my troubles; I treat them like enemies; I should 
like to kill them; for that reason I have crossed 
the ocean, I have returned to France, and come 
back to look upon the house of the Three Plane 
Trees. Yes, that is true, Lucile Brehanne tries to 


PROSPER. 


45 

forget Madame d’Azado. Do you make it a crime 
for her to do so ? ” 

“ Not at all,” replied he : “ but see how little our 
dispositions are in accordance. In vain should I 
try to forget myself, and God knows how willingly 
I would do so. My errors keep me faithful com- 
pany ; they are always there before me. I behold 
them, interrogate, examine them; I give myself up 
to anatomy of conscience; I look for those motives 
which have impelled me; I find them mean and 
miserable. I say insulting things to myself, and 
this senseless labor prevents me from living. You 
are more of a philosopher than I ; suffer me to 
admire your wisdom.” • * 

She rose, and standing before him, “Do you 
know really,” said she, “from what a miserable 
motive I married M. d’Azado ? ” 

“ What a question you ask me, cousin ! The 
heart of woman is an abyss.” 

She answered hurriedly. “You thought then 
that vanity — what I wanted, what I desired — I 
could not stay at home with my parents. Certain 
things were passing there — ” 

She stopped short, confused at what she had 
said, and at the eagerness she had shown in justi- 
fying herself. This zeal was revealing to her the 
state of her own heart, which hitherto she had 
hardly suspected. Her voice faltered, a deep blush 
overspread her cheeks, and her eyes grew moist. 
She looked once more at Didier, then crossed the 
room rapidly, and escaped into the garden. Didier 
looked after her as she disappeared, and repented 
the grief he had caused her. He followed and 
rejoined her. He expected to be received with 
the haughty air of an offended queen; she showed 
no resentment; her unalterable mildness never for- 
sook her. But in vain did he try to renew the 
conversation; she could not be induced to resume 


PROSPER. 


4 6 

it; walking before him, she directed her steps to 
the arbor, where her mother was engaged with M. 
Patru. Up to the moment of her departure, he 
could never find himself alone with her, nor was he 
able to make his excuses. 

Didier had for major domo an old woman named 
Marion, who had received him in her arms at his 
birth. She superintended the other servants, ap- 
pointed their work, wore all the keys hanging from 
her belt, regulated the daily expenses and bill of 
fare, had the upper hand in everything throughout 
the household. This good woman worshipped 
Didier; he was her foster son and her god; she 
often contemplated with respect her feeble old 
knees, as she said to herself: “Once he sat here.” 
She called him monsieur , but said thee and thou to 
him. In the evening she knitted or spun in a small 
room near the parlor. Usually before retiring to 
his room Didier would pass a few moments with 
her; he liked to hear the sound of her spinning- 
wheel; Marion was the oldest of his habits, and 
nothing is less irksome than a fixed habit. In her 
presence he felt himself alone and not solitary. On 
that day, after dinner, he made two turns on the 
terrace, then went to say good-night to Marion. 
As soon as she saw him enter: “Tell me, monsieur, 
who is that beautiful person. that came to see thee 
to-day ? I don’t mean the pretty lady with paint 
on her cheeks, but the other, who has something 
like powdered gold in her hair.” 

“ That is a cousin of mine who has come from 
Peru.” 

“ Then that is the young lady of the Three Plane 
Trees, as I used to call her. I thought I knew her ! ” 

“ A young lady who is a widow,” said Didier. 

“Your father told me about that. A widow at 
that age-^what a sad thing ! She looks more like 
the Holy Virgin. And then such a smile, such soft 


PROSPER. 


47 


movements ! She makes me think of that Angora 
cat we lost last year. When she sits clown, she 
seems about to roll herself up into a cushion and 
ask to be caressed.” 

“ I never have tried to stroke her neck,” answered 
Didier, laughing; “I don’t know how she would 
like that.” 

Marion stopped her spinning and looked out of 
the window with a pensive air. 

“ What are you thinking of, Marion ? ” asked he. 

“ I am thinking, sir, that your house is very large. 
There is too much air here, and not enough people; 
an empty place is gloomy.” 

“Do you want me to take down one wing of the 
Chateau ? ” 

“You can do better, sir. Two or three children 
would furnish the place up. I would take care of 
them and pet them; my knees and wrists are still 
strong.” 

“And where shall I get these three children? 
The government does not sell them.” 

“ Monsieur,” she began again, winking her eyes, 
“I was looking at you just now, her and thee, as 
you were walking together in the garden. That 
gave me ideas. I had something like a mist in my 
head, and, without the government having any- 
thing to do with it, in that mist I saw the three 
children.” 

“Come, this is decidedly a plot,” said Didier, 
shrugging his shoulders, and he added: “Mother 
Marion, you have broken your thread; busy your- 
self with your wheel an cl distrust ideas. Your 
mists have no common-sense in them.” 

He went up to his study and buried himself in a 
large arm-chair. Night was coming on, and little 
by little darkness invaded the room; Didier re- 
mained immovable; he thought on his cousin, and 
told himself that assuredly he was not in love with 


PROSPER. 


48 

her, hut that there was in her, nevertheless, some- 
thing which he loved, a phantom of which he had a 
glimpse now and then, an adorable vision imprisoned 
in human clay, like those nymphs of fable whom 
the poet’s eye could discover moving under the 
cold bark of the oak-trees. Apparently, what he 
loved in Madame d’Azado was her beauty, but her 
beauty alone, separate and disengaged from herself : 
he would have liked to evoke this beauty by a spell; 
the light which played over Lucile’s hair and fore- 
head, the liquid clearness of her eyes, the soft and 
rounded contour of her shoulder and bosom, the 
undulating lines of her figure, the easy swing of her 
walk, the natural, pliant, floating grace which ac- 
companied each one of her movements, all this he 
would have liked to seize upon, and make of it 
some aerial being, light as a zephyr, evanescent as 
an illusion, an apparition which he might see glid- 
ing towards him like a white gleam in the darkness, 
which he might breathe in the air, like some subtle 
perfume, and which, coming and going at his com- 
mand, might melt away leaving no trace, so soon 
as his eyes and his desire should be sated. Doubt- 
less he wished that his chimera might have enough 
of corporeal substance for him to touch it and 
clasp it in his arms. It must have a lap on which 
his head could rest, hands which he could feel 
passing over his forehead ; but he craved from it 
that infinite softness which the creations of our 
dreams possess. Then again he would wish that it 
might have senses, that it should thrill under his 
caresses, and be capable of loving him, but in the 
way that a slave loves her master, or rather as 
flowers love the sun, unconsciously, as it were, and 
with a blind intoxication which they themselves 
ignore. And, while accomplishing this invocation, 
he would return at intervals to the sentiment of 
reality, and tell himself with sorrow that there was 


PROSPER. 


49 


in Lucile something beside her beauty; a heart 
which he knew not what to do with, and whose 
devotion would be very inconvenient to him, a good 
sense whose calculations he suspected, a will strong 
enough to cause him anxiety, memories which dis- 
turbed him. She had known life; she had a past, 
she was too real, she had the fault of too much 
vitality. The Lucile of his dreams was only the 
first faint sketch, the fresh budding forth of a 
flower, the early streak of dawn, a divine sanctuary, 
the commencement of a life still enveloped in mys- 
tery and darkness, but in which is yet dimly felt 
the mute foreshadowing of a future. 

The shades of night had thickened around him, 
and in the darkness Didier seemed to see long 
floating tresses flecked with gold, and beneath them 
temples bathed in light, and great humid eyes 
which were bent on him with an expression of in- 
finite sweetness; the lower part of the face was, as 
it were, unfinished, and the outlines of the figure, 
scarcely indicated by a fleeting line, lost in night. 
Didier had sunk almost into a lethargy, feeling 
himself, as it were, contemplated by the vision, and 
drinking in the delicious consciousness of this 
gaze, which wrapped him in its sweetness and 
silence. Then he roused himself, pronouncing in a 
whisper the name of Lucile, and instantly the ap- 
parition vanished, while the true Lucile seemed to 
stand before him, saying: “ My beauty and I may not 
be divided from each other. There is a woman ifa me 
whom you must love.” To which Didier answered: 
“ Impossible ! ” — then he returned to his dream. 

At the same hour, Madame d’Azado was walking 
alone on the terrace. She, too, had her dream. 
“It is singular,” said she to herself, “so long 
as I thought him other than he is, so long as I 
believed him capable of giving happiness, I felt 
nothing for him but friendship. It is only when 
3 


PROSPER. 


50 

I discovered his defects that love has come to me. 
One day, here, for the first time, he said a harsh word 

to me — and I felt that I was his ” and Lncile 

thought on all that she might do for her patient, if 
only he would consent to let her do it; in the mean- 
time would it not he happiness to suffer for him 
and through him ? From time to time she said to 
herself: “How he treated me to-day ! Can he be 
jealous of my past ? ” And this thought made her 
heart swell with hope and. set her cheeks aflame. 
It must be owned that she and he had very differ- 
ent ways of loving. 

She re-entered the drawing-room and found 
Madame Brehanne half asleep in her arm-chair. 
“ What are you thinking of ? ” asked she. 

“I was having a delightful dream,” replied 
Madame Brehanne, rubbing her eyes. “You were 
married to Dunois , the young and fair (thus she 
always called Didier), and we were all three setting 
out for Paris.” 

“What folly!” said Lucile, laughing; and she 
sat down to her piano, which she had not opened 
for two years. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The next afternoon Didier directed his steps 
towards the Rock of the Needle. At the foot of 
the vast heap of rubbish which serves as its pedes- 
tal, stands a large round stone, on which he sat 
down resting both elbows on his knees, and lean- 
ing his cheek on his hand. His eyes were turned 
towards a sloping meadow shaded by walnut-trees, 
which terminated in a precipice; below, in the 
valley, he could see the greenish waters of the 
Ayguee, whose murmurs did not rise to where he 


PROSPER . 


was sitting; on the other side of the river a clump 
of willows, some mulberry-trees; a little higher up, 
the road to Orange, which runs parallel to the 
Aygues ; and higher still, three plane-trees forming 
a vast dome of verdure, and seeming to tower over 
all the olive-trees around. It was Sunday; the 
bells were ringing the second stroke of vespers. 
Didier was listening to the bells and looking fixedly 
at the plane-trees and at the tiled roof which they 
shaded. He sat so quietly on his turfy bench that 
a lizard, creeping out of its hole, established itself 
by his side on a large stone, and warmed itself 
deliciously in the sun. No less intrepidly came a 
pretty little demure-looking thrush, poising herself 
on the end of a branch of a service-tree, almost 
within reach of his hand, and swaying herself care- 
lessly on it. Didier was evidently holding counsel 
with himself. What was it all about ? Did he know 
himself? He was trying to come to the point of 
the question, and greatly puzzled how to do so. 
By a violent effort of will he turned away his eyes 
from the three plane-trees; at the movement which 
he made, the lizard glided again into its hole, the 
thrush took to flight. He turned his head, looked 
for a moment at the Rock of the Needle, which 
seemed in turn to be watching the course of the 
great white clouds; this immovable rock appeared 
to envy them their wings, and to feel its own dead 
weight. Rising at last, Didier turned towards the 
woods of Garde Grosse , the ordinary goal of his 
walks; but he had not taken three steps when he 
changed his mind, descended again ' towards the 
Chateau, made the tour of the garden, stripped off 
two of the finest roses from his musk rose-tree, 
renowned throughout the adjoining country for the 
matchless brilliancy of its flowers ; then, holding 
his two roses in his hand, he took the road to the 
town. As he crossed the market-place, the little 


52 


PROSPER. 


boys playing marbles raised their heads to look at 
him; the loungers of the Cafe du Commerce inter- 
rupted their game of dominoes to look at him. 
The melancholy, shy Didier de Peyrols walking 
through Nyons on a Sunday afternoon, and holding 
in his hand two roses ! The sudden apparition of a 
comet over the Deves would not have raised a 
greater commotion in the minds of all around. 

When he had reached the foot of the avenue 
leading to the Three Plane Trees, he hesitated for 
an instant, and was on the point of throwing the 
roses into a ditch and retracing his steps. But he 
kept on. Arriving at the gate, he perceived his 
cousin seated at the foot of one of the plane-trees; 
she turned her eyes his way, and immediately ad- 
vanced to meet him. Madame d’Azado was one 
of those women who have their days of beauty: 
her features were not regular enough to allow her 
to be always equal to herself; when not lighted up 
by the soul within, they might sometimes appear 
not to harmonize. On this day everything about 
her was melted into delicious concord, and by 
crowning good fortune, she had gathered, during 
her walks, some wild poppies, and placed them in 
her hair. I know a painter who is never satisfied 
with his picture until he has succeeded (this is his 
way of expressing it) in making his colors sing. 
Madame d’Azado had a right to be pleased with 
herself; the vivid red of the poppies caused, as it 
were, her golden hair, the pure white forehead, the 
tawny gray of her eyes, the dazzling fairness of her 
neck, to sing together in purest harmony. Didier 
was struck by her beauty as he had never been 
before; he felt it with a kind of shock. Giving her 
the roses, “I had thought,” said he, “that they 
would look well in your hair, but I see they come 
too late.” 

“ Give them to me all the same,” answered she, 


PROSPER. 


S3 

smiling; “we will find a place for them.” And as 
she spoke, she tried to remove the poppies and put 
the roses in their place; but he prevented her. 

“Take care not to retouch your masterpiece,” 
said he. They strolled along the terrace, talk- 
ing on indifferent subjects. Their conversation 
was disconnected; they were both preoccupied; 
they felt that something would happen; there 
was an event in the air. The evening had a super- 
natural beauty. From the zenith to the hori- 
zon the sky showed one vast sheet of orange-red 
vapors, streaked with long green rays ; above 
hTyons the rocks of Deves were bathed in purple; 
the Aygues at the outlet of the defile flowed dark 
and smooth as a ribbon of watered silk; at one of 
the angles of the hill it encountered suddenly the 
fires of the setting sun, and sent tljem back in 
sparks; . the olive groves surmounting the Three 
Plane Trees were crossed with long beams of light; 
the foreground was in shadow, the thick woods en- 
kindled with the sunset glow, while the trunks of 
the trees and their dark foliage stood out in relief 
against a golden background. The second harvests 
had been freshly reaped; the air was impregnated 
with a penetrating perfume of lavender. The 
beauty of Lucile blending with the splendors of sky 
and forest, Didier felt his head swim; I say nothing 
of his heart, I know not what was going on there. 
When they had reached the boxwood arbor, Ma- 
dame d’Azado sat down upon a bench : Didier placed 
himself near her, and an instant afterwards, hardly 
knowing what he did, found himself kneeling at 
her feet. In a voice of emotion, almost of anxiety, 
she entreated him to rise; he did not seem to hear 
her; she looked at him fixedly, trying to read his 
heart. At that instant he w~as the happiest of men. 
He was swimming in ecstasy; his longings were 
fulfilled; the desired apparition was there before 


54 


PROSPER. 


liis eyes, almost in his arms; not a woman, but an 
adorable phantom, a divine vision. Suddenly 
clasping the sylph’s head with both hands, he drew 
her towards him, and imprinted a burning kiss upon 
her lips. The poppies, stripped of their leaves, 
strewed the ground with their petals. At the 
same moment they heard the sound of a carriage; 
Madame Brehanne was returning from her drive. 
Didier sprang up hastily and fled across the kitchen 
garden as confused as a thief caught in the very 
act. Madame d’Azado watched him as he went: 
happily for her he did not turn his head; she would 
have been terrified at the sudden change in his 
features. Didier was running away in the confu- 
sion of a thief, but a thief who has forced open a 
strong box and found it empty. 

This kiss, which would have inflamed any other 
man, had suddenly frozen him; his intoxication 
was dispelled as if by enchantment; his illusions 
stripped off like the leaves of the poppies. This 
fatal kiss had made him feel in some sort the inex- 
orable limitations of sensuousness ; by a sort of 
anticipated possession his imagination had in one 
instant consumed all the delights of love; had ex- 
hausted itself and awakened with a start. Quick 
to yield himself to impulse, quicker still in regain- 
ing mastery of himself, Didier was an honest, a 
candid Don Juan. He had had in his life, each 
one following hard upon the other, three love ad- 
ventures, and had sworn to himself to stop there. 
Three times he had believed he was giving himSelf 
forever, and his illusion had not lasted the week 
out. Ten years before, he had knelt for the first 
time at a woman’s feet; what followed had been a 
thousand fathoms below his dreams, and the day 
after, on awakening, he had regretted his desires 
and despised his happiness. 

He returned homewards, his head drooping, his 


PROSPER. 


55 


eye dimmed, profoundly discouraged and very much 
out of humor with himself. Of what use to him 
were his experiences, his reflections ? His haughty 
wisdom had cruelly belied itself ; he had been the 
dupe of his imagination, he had plpnged headlong 
into the snare which she had spread for him. When 
should he learn to distrust her lures ? And what faith 
could he repose in the sober-mindedness of which 
he was so vain ? He regretted bitterly not having 
followed his first impulse. Why had he not gone 
on to the woods ? Why descend from his moun- 
tain ? Once more he had wished to essay living — and 
once more he had proved to himself the incurable 
misfortune of his heart. These roses, these poppies, 
— what madness ! He saw on the edge of the road a 
superb poppy waving proudly on its stem — and 
crushed it with his foot. But he did not feel regret 
only ; his upright conscience reproached him seri- 
ously — he could not without remorse think of his 
cousin, and the strange part he had made her play. 

Would it not seem as if, in seeking her compan- 
ionship, he had been looking for a subject with a 
view to making new experiments. Assuredly she 
deserved better than this at his hands. How 
should he justify himself to her ? how explain to 
her. When he reached the Guard, he had so long 
a face, and a look of such discomposure, that old 
Marion, who met him as he came in, was struck by 
it. “ What can have happened to Monsieur f ” she 
said to herself. “He looks likes a sportsman re- 
turning empty-handed.” He dined anyhow, and 
hastened to shut himself up in his room, where he 
passed the whole night walking up and down like a 
bear in its cage. 

From time to time he said to himself that his 
honor was at stake, that, the folly being committed, 
he must accept its consequences and bear the punish- 
ment ; he remembered the favorite saying of his 


PROSPER. 


56 

father, that wine once drawn must be drunk — and a 
good face put upon ill-luck. His duty was clearly 
to resign himself, and come to his execution with a 
good grace ; but the next moment he felt his heart 
revolt under this avalanche of reasoning, his insur- 
mountable aversion to marriage asserted itself more 
strongly than ever ; such an act of heroism, he con- 
fessed to himself, surpassed his courage. Besides, 
should he not aggravate his fault in trying to repair 
it ? He knew himself to be incapable of restraining 
his ill-humor or concealing his distastes. What 
could he promise Madame d’Azado? Would she 
have anything to do with him, if she knew his real 
feelings ? W ould she accept an expiation sure to 
entail lasting unhappiness on both ? She thought 
herself beloved ; and she must be undeceived at 
once. Perfect sincerity ; that was what he owed to 
her, and to himself. As soon as it was light, he 
seized his pen, and wrote off, without stopping, five 
or six letters to his cousin ; the most sensible, and 
the only one which he sent, was couched in these 
terms : “ My Hear Lucile : your beauty has im- 
pelled me to commit an act of madness, not that it 
is foolish to admire you ; but admiration borders on 
extravagance, when it borrows a posture and a 
language which belong rightfully to love alone. 
What need have you of my kneelings, my ecstasies ? 
You, more than any other woman, are worthy of be- 
ing loved, and I envy, not without passing a bitter 
reflection on myself, the man who will know how to 
understand you and devote himself to you ; his 
happiness is assured. I have sounded the depths 
of my own heart : this miserable heart is equally 
incapable of tasting and conferring happiness ; it 
fears every tie, as it would a bondage; it has desert 
places which even your beauty could not overcome. 
I am only a poor maniac ; forgive me ; I suffer 
enough to merit your indulgence, and may you 


PROSPER. 


57 

furnish me soon some opportunity of proving to 
you my unalterable and most respectful friendship.” 

When this note reached her, Madame d’Azado 
was sitting in the arbor where she had seen Didier 
kneeling before her. In her hand she held, for ap- 
pearances’ sake, a volume of Shakspeare, which he 
had lent her.; but she was in no humor for read- 
ing. She went over in her mind the scene of the 
evening before, and the case seemed to her perplex- 
ing ; at times she hoped, then grew alarmed ; this 
defective compass knew not towards which point 
of the horizon to turn. She took the letter, recog- 
nized the handwriting, and hastened to shut herself 
up in her room to read it. She hesitated for an 
instant before breaking the seal. After reading it, 
she became very pale, her lips trembled — “ I thought 
I knew what misfortune meant,” said she in a low 
voice. “ I was mistaken — I know it now.” Tears 
escaped from her eyes. “ How foolish I have been ! ” 
said she again. 

Some one came to tell her that a workman wanted 
to speak to her. She dried her eyes and went down 
to the terrace. She listened attentively to his 
questions, answered him collectedly, only there 
was something of emotion in her voice, and twice 
she interrupted herself to catch her breath. When 
she had finished with the man, she re-entered the 
house ; while passing through the drawing-room, she 
turned her eyes towards her piano ; the only confi- 
dant of her vain hopes ; the look she cast seemed 
to bespeak secrecy. She went up to her room, sat 
down at a table, and remained for a moment lean- 
ing her elbows upon it, with her head in her hands. 
Then she wrote the following reply : “ I shall not 
pardon, cousin, I shall try to forget ; you have 
taught me that women know how to make them- 
selves mistress of their memories. You assure me 
that you will ever be for me a respectful friend ; 
3 * 


PROSPER. 


58 

that, I hope, is an engagement you can keep without 
considering it a bondage. It is on this condition 
alone that I can see you again with pleasure. Yes, 
you have been mad; God be praised, you are so no 
longer. I promise you that henceforward I will 
place no more poppies in my hair ; but do not 
weave for me, I pray you, a funereal garland of 
nettles, rue, and rosemary. My Lord Hamlet, I am 
no Ophelia.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The same day, almost at the same hour, M. 
Patru had passed over the bridge of the Aygues, 
and was ascending the path to the Guard. He had 
donned, in view of the gravity of the occasion, his 
coat, cravat, and countenance of ceremony, his 
public-officer demeanor, his official looks, and he 
was grand to behold. At this moment he was no 
longer the man of Alexandrines in quest of a rhyme, 
nor the joyous guest hastening to a festival, and 
scenting in imagination the delicious aroma of a 
partridge cooked to a turn ; he was now the practi- 
cal man, the confidential friend of families, the 
guardian of the code, repairing to the home of a 
client to treat with him on an affair of importance. 
Meantime, notwithstanding his air of solemn grav- 
ity, he gave himself up on the way to humorous 
reflections, which gratified his love of fun. “ What 
will our young man say ? ” thought he. “ In what 
w T ay will he receive the news I bring him ? I suspect 
it will be a rude shock to his indolence. I think 
I see him bounding from his chair, as if a bombshell 
had exploded between his legs. He thinks himself 
superior to every emotion. We shall see.” 


PROSPER. 


59 

After writing to his cousin, Didier had thrown 
himself on his bed. Marion came knocking at his 
door with a discreet touch, to tell him that M. Patru 
was there, and desired to speak with him. He rose 
at once, wrapped himself in his Persian dressing- 
gown, and entered the study, where the notary was 
awaiting him. By the solemn air of the latter, he 
divined at once that the day of explanations had 
arrived at last ; and pushing an arm-chair toward 
him — “ Speak,” said he, “ I am all ears.” 

“ I announced to you two months ago,” said M. 
Patru, “ that I had an important secret to reveal to 
you, hut that some necessary information was still 
wanting. I have received it, and come to-day — ” 

“ I fear you come too late,” interrupted Didier. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the notary in aston- 
ishment. 

“ I mean that what was possible yesterday is no 
longer so to-day. When you learn my objections — ” 

“ I think I understand you,” interrupted M. Patru 
in his turn. “You are quite mistaken, my dear 
friend. It is certain that I should be pleased to see 
you marry your cousin ; you may have perceived 
that. An excellent thing for you ; not quite so 
good, perhaps, for her. I do not know whether this 
marriage be longer possible, but there is no talk of 
that now. I came to-day to fulfil a promise I made 
to your father twenty-four hours before his death, 
and to announce to you, from him, a piece of news 
which may astonish you. It is, that you have a 
brother.” 

Didier did not give that bound on which the no- 
tary had counted, but he was seized with a tolera- 
bly strong emotion, which he could not conceal. 
He had a brother ! Of all the communications 
that M. Patru could make to him, this was certainly 
the strangest, the last he had expected., M. Patru 
took off his spectacles, cleaned the glasses with his 


6o 


PROSPER. 


handkerchief, replaced them on his nose, ran his 
hand through his hair, coughed to clear his voice ; 
then he began again. 

“ I regret, my dear child, to be obliged to tell you 
that your father had knocked a hole in the seventh 
commandment — but there is forgiveness for all sins. 
Also, I should, moreover, fail in my duty, were I 
not to allege in his defence this circumstance : your 
mother nearly died in bringing you into the world ; 
the physicians who attended her declared that she 
could never survive a second confinement — ” 

“You have no need to justify my father,” inter- 
rupted Didier, with a gesture somewhat over-hasty. 

M. Patru bowed. “ These are the facts,” contin- 
ued he. “ You were four years old when a distiller 
of Bordeaux, who, flattering himself that he had 
discovered a new process, desired to alter his fac- 
tory, and who had heard your father spoken of as 
a model money-lender — you know (and who should 
better ?) how easy it was to interest him in any 
manufacturing enterprise, of whatever sort, pro- 
vided it were well conducted, and offered safe guar- 
antees ; these were the only investments he cared 
• for-—” 

“ For God’s sake, when will you get through this 
sentence ? ” exclaimed Didier. 

“ A little patience,” resumed the imperturbable 
notary. “ Although your father felt from the first 
little confidence in the affair proposed to him (you 
know how keen he was about all those things), he 
determined to see with his own eyes what it was 
worth. He had a sort of platonic love for business, 
and every opportunity of bestirring himself was 
welcome to him. He set out for Bordeaux, think- 
ing to stay only a week there. The negotiations 
dragged along ; the distillery being set aside, other 
propositions were made to him, one after another. 
When a capitalist arrives in a place, the people who 


PROSPER. 


6 1 


get up enterprises as they do almanacs are not long 
in finding him out. Honey draws flies ; and your 
father was not a man to send away unheard any 
one, were he a speculator in chestnuts, a sponger, or 
an inventor of flea-powder. He believed that the 
wise man could learn something, even in the com- 
pany of fools. All this caused him to prolong his 
sojourn at Bordeaux beyond what he had at first 
intended. 

“Now, during those moments of leisure which 
his different negotiations allowed him, he had time 
to observe that in the house where he lodged, lived 
a young and pretty girl — a sempstress, named Jus- 
tine Depret. I know not how their intimacy began, 
but it is certain that at the end of nine months the 
result was a poor, pretty, little boy, to whom they 
gave the name of Prosper, as though to avert the 
evil influence under which he seemed born. And 
thus it is, my dear Didier, that you have a brother, 
whose cause I am called upon to plead to-day before 
your tribunal.” Thereupon, M. Patru looked down- 
wards and made a long pause, during which he 
stared fixedly at the floor, as if he were looking for 
a pin. 

“You are an exasperating man,” murmured Di- 
dier, throwing himself with an air of annoyance 
into an arm-chair. “You put in a hundred words 
where only one is necessary, and only one when a 
hundred are needed.” 

“ I continue my narrative,” said M. Patru, secretly 
delighted at the nervous agonies of Didier. He 
was, like a physician, trying to experiment on the 
degree of sensibility which a man might still pos- 
sess in a state of catalepsy. “ Come, come,” said 
he to himself, “ our young man is not cased in such 
triple mail of indifference as we had feared.” 

“ When your father left Bordeaux,” continued he, 
“Justine was already in her fourth month. He 


62 


PROSPER. 


behaved, as you may believe, like a thorough gentle- 
man. He provided her a refuge for the period of 
her confinement in a private asylum, instituted for 
such accidents; he promised never to abandon her, 
to give her an annuity of twelve hundred francs, and 
when the time came, to place their child in a position 
which would secure his future. Then he got upon 
his stilts once more, and went off like lightning. 
It was high time. A merchant of Marseilles, to 
whom he had advanced funds, found himself em- 
barrassed and called on him for aid ; on the other 
hand, Marion sent him word that your mother was 
just taken seriously ill. He hastened to Nyons, 
thence to Marseilles, and for many months his mind 
was fully occupied. Marseilles, Nyons, a wife 
to take care of, a debtor to' bolster up, — he had, in 
short, no leisure to think of Justine. 

“ During this interval, the damsel was slyly exe- 
cuting a project which she took good care not to 
confide to him. She was ill pleased with her r61e 
of maid and mother, and bethought herself of an 
expedient. She had a cousin named Pierre Pochon, 
a knife-grinder by trade. She went to see him, told 
him her adventure, step by step — your father, her 
condition, the annuity. This last item appeared 
the one most worthy of attention to our ne’er-do- 
weel, whom I do not warrant as an ancient Roman. 
He required no urging, and from the first moment 
consented to shoulder child and all. He married 
Justine as soon as possible, and acknowledged Pros- 
per as his son, in the very act of celebrating the 
marriage ceremony. — Meantime, relieved from 
his two greatest anxieties, your father returns to 
Bordeaux ; he there learns that his child has become 
the very legitimate son of Pierre Pochom— a great 
grief to him ! What should he do ? Dispute the 
recognition by Pochon ? he could not think of that 
for a moment. The most simple plan was to get 


PROSPER. 


63 

in a rage, and this he did. Pochon assumed a very 
lofty tone. He was one of those rascals who take 
pleasure in asking alms insolently. He represented 
piously to your father the greatness of the service he 
had just rendered him, and started from^that point 
to insinuate that twelve hundred francs were a miser- 
able stipend for his heroism. M. de Peyrols rated 
him roundly for his impudence. Justine shed tears. 
W Oman’s tears — crocodile’s tears ! Upon her prom- 
ise that Prosper should be brought up like a prince, 
your father was moved to increase the annuity by 
eight hundred francs. He went away again, sick at 
heart. Not that he cared for Justine — he had enter- 
tained for her only a passing fancy, extinct as soon as 
kindled (the little love-affairs of real business men 
are brief — they do not lose time on such trifles) ; 
but, on the other hand, he cared a great deal for his 
child, who was now no longer his. Nevertheless, 
at the end of a few days — Your father bade me, 
my dear friend, tell you the story without con- 
cealing anything, and without palliating any of 
his faults. You can respect his memory with- 
out believing him to have been a saint. Which 
of us is perfect? There were two men in him, 
the man of business and the man of senti- 
ment. He gave way to feeling when he had 
time — indeed, he had almost, as it were, fixed pe- 
riods for it, and his heart was always ready to pay 
up, when its bills fell due, never before — ” 

“ Heavens ! how many useless words ! ” exclaimed 
Didier, passing his hand over his forehead, convulsed 
with impatience. 

“You are difficult to please,” resumed M. Patru, 
tranquilly. “ Sometimes I say too much, sometimes 
not enough. I was anxious to explain to you why 
your father got over his grief so easily. Unfortu- 
nately, after a certain time, your mother had wind 
of the matter. Who told her ? I suspect Pochon. 


PROSPER. 


64 

She put some questions. At the first word, your 
father (who was sincerity itself) confessed every- 
thing. Her angelic mildness did not allow her to 
complain ; but as there remained something of the 
woman in. the angel, she annexed one condition to 
her forgiveness. She required that the annuity, 
payable every six months, should be converted, once 
for all, into a certain sum to be paid off, once for 
all. Her woman’s and mother’s jealousy made her 
wish to break the last bond which still united your 
father to his bastard. This was precisely what Po- 
chon wanted, and he had written to that effect to 
M. de Peyrols. His pride found a certain depend- 
ence in being pensioned, and he longed to be freed 
from that bond, and rise to his feet, an honest man. 
At the same time, he was hatching a project to pro- 
cure funds and establish a grocery. Such was his 
dream. His virtue would not hear of income, it 
coveted capital. This was his way of being honora- 
ble. Your father easily consented to what he asked. 
The necessity of thinking of Pochon twice a year at a 
fixed period, began to weigh heavily on him. Pochon 
weighed upon him — was his nightmare. He envied 
the happiness of people whose favorable circum- 
stances saved them from attending to a Pochon. 
He had taken me into his confidence, he consulted 
me. I advised him to give the capital to the child, 
the use of the income to the parents ; he answered 
that Pochon would not hear of that, that he himself 
was tired of receiving letters from this rascal, that 
he wanted at any price to hav^e done with him ; in 
short, I saw that he was overridden by Pochon, 
and I did not insist. During the three or four 
years which followed he had no time to repent of 
his weakness. These were the busiest years of his 
life, for it was then that he accepted those two great 
silent partnerships which doubled his fortune. 
What activity ! what feverish energy ! he never 


PROSPER . 


65 

laid aside his big boots ; always moving about, now 
he hastened to Marseilles, now to Colmars, some- 
times stopped at Nyons, to embrace his family 
there, always perfectly well in the midst of this 
vortex, ever riding some favorite hobby, smoking 
like a caldron, sweating hope at every pore, gay, 
alert, in a good humor with all creation, and es- 
pecially with the man who invented travel. Never 
did he show more activity ; the curate of Nyons 
had nicknamed him the ‘screw-steamer.’ Your 
mother died. He wept hot tears for her, remained 
a whole month shut up at home ; you could not in- 
duce him even to walk around the garden. All at 
once, his grief disposing him to all sorts of emo- 
tion, he bethought himself of Prosper. He knew 
that Pochon was no longer at Bordeaux ; that hon- 
est fellow had succeeded in concealing his lucky 
speculation from all his friends and acquaintances. 
As long as he received the income he had continued 
to turn his wheel and hoard his silver in his old 
stockings. Once in possession of the capital, for 
fear of gossiping tongues, he had chosen Angou- 
leme as the theatre of his new fortunes, and his first 
appearance on the stage as a grocer. Your father 
set out for Angouleme. There he caught a glimpse 
of Prosper, who seemed to him the prettiest little 
wight in the world. Pochon appeared; as usual 
his first idea was to hold out his hand foy money — he 
always began that way — every one has his little spe- 
ciality; that was his. As you may well believe, he 
was refused point blank; then he pretended to be- 
lieve that your father had come for Justine, and 
draping himself in his toga, he bade him leave the 
house and never set foot there again; he would ad- 
mit nothing but his money. This time M. de 
Peyrols swore to bury Pochon in the darkest depths 
of forgetfulness. 

But some years later, one fine morning, he met 


66 


PROSPER . 


somewhere (I know not where) a little fellow who 
resembled Prosper, chestnut-colored hair, gray eyes. 
Then he was off again at a tangent ! The next day 
no more business ! He awoke, a father to the very 
marrow of his bones, with the ardent desire of be- 
holding his child once more, and the profound 
conviction that the happiness of the rest of his life 
depended upon it. Despite all the rebuffs which he 
foresaw, back he goes to Angoul6me. No more 
Pochons there ! he makes inquiries ; no news, except 
that, their affairs being all topsy-turvy, they had 
withdrawn their funds from the shop, to go and seek 
their fortune elsewhere. How should he get on their 
traces ? M. de Peyrols endeavored to do so, went 
to Bordeaux, but soon became discouraged, and dur- 
ing twelve years (the two partnerships contribut- 
ing/) his legitimate son made him forget the other. 
You know how much he loved you. How entirely 
we are at the mercy of our remembrances ! They 
go away, they come back when they will. One 
evening about eight months ago, M. de Peyrols sent 
for me in haste. I went at once, and found him in 
a state of desperate agitation. He had kept his bed 
for three days ; for the first time he felt how se- 
riously ill he was. Anxiety had laid hold on him, 
and immediately two memories, two images, which 
he had long held at a distance, had re-entered his 
brain in full force. These two phantoms were, Po- 
chon and Prosper. He asked himself with anguish, 
what the one had done with the other. Had his 
child, through his fault, become a dishonest wretch ? 
This doubt besieged and tortured him, he had no 
other idea in his head ; his conscience was a prey to 
a sort of delirium, and he was quite beside himself. 
He overwhelmed himself with the most violent and 
exaggerated reproaches ; his whole life, so honorably 
passed, so usefully occupied, reduced itself to one 
sole action — the abandonment of a son born out of 


PROSPER. 


67 

wedlock. I only succeeded in calming him some- 
what, by taking an oath that I would make every 
effort to find Prosper once more. £ I have faith in 
you, my old friend,’ said he to me. ‘You need 
only will it so, and Prosper is found.’ But what 
calmed him yet more, was the promise I made him 
to plead your half-brother’s cause with you. He 
exclaimed, as he embraced me, ‘ Didier is gener- 
ous ; he will repair my faults ; ’ and then he had 
pen and ink brought, and collecting all his remaining 
strength, wrote, with a trembling hand, this note ; 
‘My dear Didier, — your father, in dying, asks of 
you a favor. You have a brother. M. Patru will 
tell you the rest. I prescribe nothing to you ; you 
will do all you can to repair the culpable negligence 
of your father.’ When he had written these lines, 
he seemed another man, his relaxed features bore 
an expression of relief from which I augured well. 
‘ You have saved me,’ said he. ‘ If I die, I should 
die happy ; but I shall not die.’ Alas, twenty-four 
hours later, he was no more.” 

After M. Patru had finished his recital, Didier re- 
mained for some moments plunged in his reflections. 
Then he said : 

“ Why did not my father define his intention with 
regard to his natural son ? Could he doubt my 
eagerness to execute any design he might have en- 
tertained in his favor ? ” 

“My dear boy,” answered the notary, “your 
father’s mind was, so to speak, eminently juridical. 
In all things, he looked not to the letter only, but 
to the spirit of the law. Now he knew the severity 
of the said law in regard to illegitimate children; he 
knew that it grants them nothing but a bare sup- 
port, and if Prosper were bound by that law, what 
would he expect ? Your father knew also that the 
code rejects finally and unalterably every acknowl- 
edgment of an illegitimate child, and that, on the 


PROSPER. 


68 

other hand, the Court of Appeals 4 ‘has confirmed 
many decrees of the King’s courts, annulling lega- 
cies bequeathed to such children, because the testator 
had proclaimed himself a father by the mere act of 
liberality. ‘Thus, then,’ reasoned M. de Peyrols. 
“ I do not know Prosper Pochon ; all that I know 
about him is, that he is my son, and thus, any dis- 
position I might make in his favor would have 
for its motive this very fact of his being my son. 
Hence it follows — ’ ” 

“ I have read MarcadS, I have read Demolombe,” 
interrupted Didier, with increased impatience. 
“ For pity’s sake, Monsieur Patru, let us have less 
reasoning.” 

“ W e will lay aside generalities, and consider only 
this particular case,” continued the notary. “Your 
father desired especially to respect your liberty. 
You see that, in his note, he leaves everything in 
your hands ; he held that you were not obliged to 
do anything, and that all you might do would be 
for love of him. Such was his point of view, and 
his doctrine seems to me orthodox. And besides 
(now comes the essential point), how could he know 
whether Prosper needed his bounty, and not rather 
encouragement, wise advice, the friendship and 
direction of such a wise Mentor as you ? ” 

Didier could not repress a slight shrug of the 
shoulders. “You think of everything, Monsieur 
Patru,” said he, “ except of telling me where my 
brother is, what he is doing, what you know about 
him — ” 

“ Your impatient ways confuse my mind. You 
are quite excusable ; I understand — surprise and 
emotion. Where your brother is, what he is doing, 
I know at last ; but I had some trouble to find all 
this out, much paper and ink were spent in the pro- 
cess. It is through the kindness of two of my 
colleagues, one at Paris, the other at Bordeaux, that 


PROSPER. 


69 

I have finally discovered our bird. I have brought 
you this correspondence ; you can look it over at 
your convenience. In the meantime, the sum of it 
is this. M. and Madame Pochon had gone to Paris ; 
they had reopened a shop at Batignolles ; there they 
both died of cholera. Their son’s name is not Pros- 
per Pochon, but Prosper Randoce, at your service. 
This is his travelling name ; he appears to be a 
sort of literary character, doing everything that 
concerns his trade. He has written city items in a 
petty newspaper ; he is the author of two Vaude- 
villes which were hissed, two superb failures (for 
which you will console him), and of a volume of 
unsalable verses, entitled “ Conflagrations of the 
Soul ; ” it appears as if the game were not worth 
the candle. But with all this, he goes it while he is 
young; he has got rid of all his patrimony in two 
years; he has been in Clichy. How did he get out ? 
That is his secret. He lives in the Rue de Tournon, 
and is by no means destitute. What does he live 
on? That’s another mystery. You must disentangle 
it all. All this information has, I confess, nothing 
very reassuring in it. Fortunately, you will not be 
discouraged for a small matter. And, besides, who 
knows ? ” added he, rising to go, “ perhaps Prosper 
Randoce is a man of heart, and in that case his 
friendship may shed some sweetness over your life. 
Perhaps, also, he is a man of genius, who has not 
yet found out his line. You will hatch this egg. 
Literature may yet be your debtor for some im- 
mortal masterpiece which, were it not for you, might 
never have come out of its shell.” 

“Don’t try to come over me with your shells, 
Monsieur Patru ! ” said Didier curtly. “ I have a 
duty to fulfil ; I shall discharged ; that is enough ” 
With these words he escorted M. Patru to the hall 
door. There the notary turned abruptly towards 
him, and, looking into his eyes, with a very different 


70 


PROSPER . 


expression of face, and an appearance almost of 
emotion. “ If ever you need my advice,” said he, 
“ I am always ready.” 

“There is no need to tell me that, most insup- 
portable of notaries ! ” answered Didier, grasping 
both his hands warmly. And then he shut himself 
up in his room again. It is not astonishing that he 
required some time to recover from his stupefaction. 

This Prosper Randoce, who had just risen like a 
red star on the horizon of his life, gave him much 
uneasiness. Why had they not asked him to share 
his fortune with this brother? That might have 
been quickly accomplished ; but to set out to look 
for him, to question him, study him, bring him to 
book, induct himself into his affairs, perhaps be 
obliged to make himself his Mentor — what a burthen ! 
His indolence shuddered at such a prospect. 

There is, in some comic opera, a character, who, 
suspected during a sea-voyage of having taken part 
in a mutiny, is condemned to be hanged without 
delay. The poor wretch is very sea-sick, and when 
his sentence is announced to him, “ I consent to be 
hanged,” he answers, in a piteous tone, “provided 
you don’t move me ! ” What was asked of Didier 
was precisely this — to move. 

Whilst he was meditating on his predicament, 
Marion brought him Madame d’Azado’s answer. 
“M. Patru never does anything at the right time,” 
said he to himself, impatiently. “ Why did he not 
speak twenty-four hours sooner ? He would have 
spared me a precious blunder.” 


PART SECOND. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The first thing Didier did was to procure a copy 
of the “ Conflagrations of the Soul.” Before em- 
barking for that distant country called Prosper 
Randoce, he was very glad to examine the map of 
the country a little. As soon as he had received the 
precious volume, he set himself to study it con- 
scientiously. It was a hash — a salmagundi of very 
unequal pieces. First, there were some specimens 
of wild romanticism, crowded with images, bediz- 
ened with hyperbole, and with the colors freely 
daubed on. It is easy to recognize in these an awk- 
ward imitation of a very great poet, who has never 
given away his genius to any one. Like their mas- 
ter, the courtiers of Alexander hung their heads to 
the left ; but then Alexander had previously won 
the battle of Arbela. 

In one of these lyrical pieces, the author depicted 
himself as a man with the heart and skin of a 
wild beast. On the whole, these lyrics were cold, 
a grave defect in a conflagration. Nevertheless, 
here and there some fortunate sparks might be met 
with — some outbursts of more genuine enthusiasm, 
verses well composed, images vivid and striking. 
It seemed all the time as if emotion was about to 
come — you expected something. Unfortunately, 
the author set himself immediately to jest. He 
hastened to throw cold water on his own passion, 
to turn his emotion into ridicule. He became all 


7 2 


PROSPER. 


at once the cheap wit, and everything ended in a 
caper. In one word, he was his own fireman, and 
extinguished his pwn conflagration. Other pieces 
in the collection were attempts in the way of poet- 
ical jewelry and ornament; little nothings, of which 
the author tried to make something ; sham jewels 
set in sham gold. This style was ill suited to his 
species of talent. An exquisite purity of form is 
absolutely necessary to it, and the style of Prosper 
Randoce was full of blotches. He was never made 
to work with the chasing chisel. In physiological 
poetry, of which his volume offered some specimens, 
he was a little more at home. One fragment enti- 
tled Anatomies seemed to have been written with 
a surgeon’s knife. A sweet odor of the dissecting- 
room exhaled from it. 

Didier, it is hardly necessary to say, had little 
taste for the Sawbones school of poetry. He con- 
sidered physiology a very useful science, but did 
not think it should be elevated to the rank of a 
muse. He did not approve of the human heart 
being analyzed as one pierces an abscess, with sleeves 
rolled up to the elbow. Tastes are not to be dis- 
puted about. For a heroine, he preferred the god- 
dess in the rainbow to the dog in the gutter. 
Boileau has said 

“ These are but wreaths and architects' festoons.” 

At the present day, one might say sometimes, 

“ These are but entrails.” 

The thing did not admit of doubt ; the Confla- 
grations were neither a masterpiece nor a work of 
genius. True poetry is that through which we may 
hear the soul breathe ; in reading Prosper Randoce, 
nothing could be heard save the agitations of a 
struggling brain. Nothing can be original without 


PROSPER. 


7 3 


sincerity ; everything sincere is always new. Who- 
ever expresses what he has really felt, puts on paper 
his own life, which is his alone. Didier, in order 
not to give up the case as hopeless, said within him- 
self that this volume of verses was but the first 
crude attempt of a beginner, still uncertain of his 
vocation, and trying his hand at different things, in 
order to discover where his real talent lay. Had 
he ended by finding this out ? That was uncertain. 
We can only recognize ourselves in those things 
which we really care for ; perhaps he cared for 
nothing. There are certain minds — true rolling 
stones — which can never fix themselves anywhere, 
easily attached, detaching themselves as easily; like 
those stray curs that change masters every morning. 
The idea truly precious to us, that is our veritable 
country. These wandering spirits are the homeless 
ones of thought. 

And notwithstanding all this, the author of the 
Conflagrations was not a man destitute of intelli- 
gence. His defects were not those of weakness. 
He possessed all the physical qualities of talent — 
that robust constitution, that vigor of temperament, 
which is not genius, but which genius cannot do 
without. A Delacroix and a good sign-painter have 
this at least in common : that they are both hard- 
working men, inured to fatigue, and possessing a 
slightly barbarous inclination for struggling with 
difficulties. Evidently Prosper Randoce liked this 
sort of fencing ; he had both ardor and tempera- 
ment. “ By means of his very mistakes,” said Di- 
dier to himself, “ he has perhaps been brought to 
find out his real line, and give up his imitations. 
He was twenty-three years old when he published 
his Conflagrations. He has doubtless done better 
things since. True, his two coifiedies .have been 
hissed — the public is often unjust. At any rate, 
the fact of publishing a volume of verses before 
4 


74 


PROSPER. 


one has made a name, is an indication of something 
like elevation of mind. There are many specula- 
tions in this world more lucrative than that.” 

While meditating on the Conflagrations , Didier 
was preparing to set out. It may readily he believed 
how much it cost him. What was he going to do 
in Paris ? Hold a court of inquiry ? He was not 
up to that business. An examining judge must be 
curious ; Didier was the most incurious of men. 
He must be inquisitive to indiscretion ; Didier was 
the least questioning man in the world. And as 
for playing the part of Mentor, in no way deceiv- 
ing himself on that head, he refused point-blank to 
ascribe to himself any of the qualifications for such 
an employment. To gain the ascendency over 
others, one must begin by having faith in one’s self, 
and a religious belief in one’s own importance. 
Now Didier doubted everything, but especially him- 
self. In short, he had to sustain him, in the execu- 
tion of an enterprise which seemed to him heroic, 
only the sentiment of duty ; and this sentiment 
unaided, left to itself, is more apt to discourage 
than to assist us. Nothing good is accomplished 
in this world without a secret joy in being and doing. 

Didier told himself that all those men who have 
accomplished great sacrifices knew beforehand that 
they would find happiness in them. They were fol- 
lowing out an instinct of their nature, and exercis- 
ing a certain talent. It was asked of him to interest 
himself in and devote himself for a brother of whom 
he knew nothing. This was asking him to be vir- 
tuous, and a talent for virtue had been denied him. 
He had no taste for this beautiful instrument; much 
in spite of himself, he was obliged to play upon it. 
He would get through it, as well as he could, but 
would answer for nothing ; and he cursed the stu- 
pid refiner who had caused his father’s journey to 
Bordeaux, and his consequent acquaintance with 


PROSPER. 


75 


Justine. “Still, everybody must live !” Prosper 
Randoce might have suggested ; and to this Didier 
would have instantly replied, “ I don’t see the neces- 
sity.” While he was occupied in locking up his 
papers and regulating some important affairs, he 
felt from time to time his legs give way under him ; 
but then he would look at his father’s portrait, and 
say, “ It must be ! ” 

He had decided not to set out without seeing his 
cousin again. One afternoon, summoning all his 
courage, he went to the Three Plane Trees. Most 
fortunately for him, it turned out that Madame 
d’Azado had just left the house. He was received 
by Madame Brehanne. 

When he announced to her his approaching depart- 
ure, — “ Ah, my dear nephew,” exclaimed she, draw- 
ing back in surprise, “ I admire you for concealing 
your game so well. If one might believe what you 
say, Nyons were an Eldorado, and the road to Orange 
the eighth wonder of the world. I have always 
suspected that you were making fun of us.” 

“ God forbid ! ” answered he, “ I am always sin- 
cere, but my humor is changeable. The other 
morning I awoke with an ardent desire to breathe 
the air of the Boulevards. I thirst after fetes, 
theatres, amusements. My wisdom was all swept 
away with the current. I have packed my trunks, 
and now I am off.” 

At these words, fetes, pleasures , Mme. de Bre- 
hanne’s eyes sparkled. She was like a war-horse, 
smelling the battle afar off. “ Put me into one of 
your trunks,” said she. “ I shall not trouble you 
much, I take up so little room. I will be very good, 
I assure you, — very discreet.” 

“I should carry you off with great pleasure, 
Madame,” said he, “ if I did not fear getting into 
trouble with my cousin.” 

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “you remind me that I 


PROSPER. 


76 

am under tutelage.” And she began complaining 
bitterly of the revolting selfishness of her daughter, 
who, without scruple, imposed on her the sacrifice 
of all her inclinations and tastes. “ Pity me,” said 
she, “ I am the most unhappy of women. My 
daughter is rich and I am not ; she abuses the ad- 
vantage her fortune gives her; she holds the purse- 
strings, and obliges me to submit in everything to 
her wishes ; Monsieur Brehanne was exceptionally 
hard upon me; he left me nothing; it was a poor re- 
ward for twenty years of the most constant fidelity. 
At his death I found myself reduced to my dowry 
alone. Three thousand francs of income is hardly 
liberty for a woman. Take notice, too, that M. 
Brehanne had alienated some of my real estate 
without making legal restitution. He abused the 
inexperience of a woman who understands nothing 
of business. I might have brought a suit ; but I 
drew back from a scandal which would not have ' 
terrified Lucile. She has the genius of an attorney, 
and civil law at her fingers’ ends. I was not strong 
enough to fight it out ; my poor little brain would 
have broken itself to pieces against that strong 
head. In order to make all right with me, she 
offered to give me a home in her house and to take 
upon herself my support. I am good-natured to the 
point of foolishness. If you have feelings of delicacy, 
you are always a dupe. My daughter is not difficult 
to please in the matter of happiness; to move things 
about in her house, dodge around, go and come, 
give orders, work tapestry, trim rose-bushes, water 
her flower-beds, assure herself that a little blue 
flower will bloom to-morrow, and a little yellow 
flower the day after ; all this is quite enough to fill 
up her life. Ah ! I was about to forget her ward- 
robe, a bureau drawer to put in order, that is her 
hobby. While still a little girl, she had a mania 
for her bureau drawers. Add to this, that she owns 


PROSPER. 


77 

the Manual of Practical Life. Heavens! She has 
chosen the better part ; I wish I were like her. Of 
what use is it to have soul, imagination, and poetry, 
when one is condemned to end one’s days at the 
Three Plane Trees ? I have always had aspirations ; 
it is my torment.” And Madame Brehanne went 
on speaking of the stars, of the azure of the sky, 
the mysteries of the soul, all which did not prevent 
her from returning to that real estate which M. 
Brehanne had disposed of without accounting for 
it. Stars and re - investments were agreeably 
mingled in her speech. Didier was not the man 
to believe all she said ; he knew the real truth 
about the twenty years of constant fidelity; he was 
sure that M. Brehanne must have had good reason 
to feel harshly towards the aspirations of his wife, 
and that Lucile was not entirely wrong in keeping a 
tight rein on her prisoner. Nevertheless, unjust 
as they were, the complaints of Madame Brehanne 
added the finishing stroke to his prejudices against 
his cousin; she was somehow bespattered by them. 
After having been nurse to a crack-brained old 
husband, to constitute herself jailer to a coquettish 
mother! “ This is too much,” said Didier to him- 
self. There was in such an existence a gross reality 
which revolted him. To wade through mud once in 
one’s life, may be borne, but to have mud up to 
one’s knees! Yet how to escape with grace from a 
situation of so much embarrassment ? It was not 
Madame d’Azado’s fault, but her misfortune. Of 
what use to her those eyes and that hair? Her 
beauty and her mode of life were out of keeping, 
and Didier thought of those illustrated works in 
which a bad letter-press is bound up with elegant 
and exquisite illustrations. While listening to the 
Jeremiads of Madame Brthanne, he was all the time 
casting disturbed glances at the boxwood arbor, 
where he had for an instant believed himself to be 


PROSPER. 


7 3 

kneeling before a vision. Visions do not own the 
Manual of Practical Life. When he took leave of 
Madame Brehanne, she wished him all the pleasures 
and all the boulevards in the world, but she rec- 
ommended him not to allow himself to be carried 
away in the vortex, to think sometimes of the poor 
recluse, and to return as soon as possible to console 
her. He promised all she wished ; he was in haste 
to get away. Although he had not spoken three 
words, he was as much out of breath as if he had 
taken a long run. One sometimes gets out of 
breath at the ears. 

Next morning he acquainted Marion with his proj- 
ect, and gave her orders to prepare his trunks. 
The worthy woman was almost staggered by this 
news. 

“ Bless us ! ” said she. “ What is going to happen 
now ? What have you got in your head, sir ? Pass 
the winter in Paris ! I thought you were settled 
here for the season, and now you are off. Can it be 
that you have found in the bottom of a big chest 
your father’s big boots ? ” 

“ I know not,” answered Didier, “but I feel my 
legs are getting rusty, and I must give them some 
exercise.” 

“ And thy cousin ? ” said she. 

“ Ah, well; what, my cousin? Do you think she 
cannot live without me ? ” 

“I have had a fine dream,” answered she; “but 
here below, things go contrary, like a dog going to 
vespers. Adieu, Tambourines ! Go, get you gone, 
ye wedding guests! However, it does seem to me — ” 

A look from Didier silenced her. But she did 
not, for that, cease to think. She could not be 
reconciled to the indefinite postponement of the 
three visionary babies she had seen so distinctly 
through the mist. As she went and came from 
the trunks to the linen-closet, she furtively studied 


PROSPER. 


79 

her master’s countenance. There was mystery in 
his eyes, and a shadow on his brow, but she could 
not divine that this shadow was cast by Prosper 
Randoce. M. Patru came to breakfast with Di- 
dier. As he left the table he espied on a shelf near, 
the Conflagrations of the Soul. He turned over 
the leaves, shrugged his shoulders, uttered several 
“ alases! ” and “Hallos! ” 

“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, “what is poetry 
coming to? Muse of rubbish, 

“ ‘ Thy greedy sucklings drain thy arid breasts.’ 

There’s a man with the heart and skin of a wild 
beast! We might excuse him, were it only the 
skin.” 

Didier took up the defence of the Conflagrations. 

“ I don’t wish to speak ill of your Alexandrines ,” 
said he to the notary, “but you are a genuine clas- 
sic , wig and all. You hold that there are twenty- 
seven rules to be observed in the Epic, not one 
more, not one less. Without doubt, the Gardens 
of Delille are a wonder, but they cannot be written 
a second time. Do suffer our new poets to cultivate 
new lands, or we shall die of monotony.” 

“ Happy Prosper Randoce!” exclaimed M. Pa- 
tru. “You are rightly named Prosper, since the 
fish begins to bite at your hook.” 

He then questioned Didier on his plan of cam- 
paign, and gave him some advice. He had no dif- 
ficulty in entering into his situation; he himself had 
rejoiced in a brother very needy, very exacting, 
regularly out-at-elbows, ever discounting his means, 
and doing nothing with his t wo hands, otherwise the 
best fellow in the world. To supply the necessities 
of this good fellow, M. Patru’s purse had bled more 
than once. 

“ After all,” said he to Didier, “ your adventure 
is not so tragical as it seems. 


8o 


PROSPER. 


“ Good Lord! who is there who hasn’t a brother? 
Only allow me to make one last suggestion to you. 
Remember that your father intended to pay his debt 
less in money than in affection and good advice. 
Generous as he was, he had a certain respect for his 
money. He would not blame your liberality here 
at home, because it is generally well placed; but he 
would be grieved, indeed, at seeing his wealth dis- 
appear in the hands of a spendthrift. You are only 
his trustee; try to enter into his intentions and take 
care not to exceed his orders.” 

Didier accompanied M. Patru as far as the end 
of the terrace. After leaving him he sat down, 
with his legs dangling on a rocky and perpendicular 
platform, which commands the city and its three 
wards looking like the three-cornered hat of a gen- 
darme. He watched for some time the swallows, 
which had clustered above the steeple of Sainte 
Marie , and poised themselves from time to time in 
succession on the balustrades, or described wide 
circles around the gables. He would gladly have 
changed places with them. Turning his head, he 
cast one farewell glance in the direction of Three 
Plane Trees. “ The mother is too fantastical,” he 
muttered, “ but the daughter is too reasonable. On 
the one side too many aspirations, on the other, too 
many bureau-drawers. I have at least this satisfac- 
tion, that I can depart without regrets, and without 
remorse.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Didier desired to find lodgings in the neighbor- 
hood of the Rue de Tournon. He went in quest of 
furnished apartments and took the first he could 


PROSPER . 


8l 


get in the Rue Bonaparte, near the Square St. Sul- 
pice. Here he was quickly installed, and found him- 
self quite comfortable, although Baptiste, his valet 
de chambre, whom Marion had recommended to take 
great care of Monsieur, declared that the somewhat 
shabby furniture was by no means worthy of the 
majesty of his master. He strolled about for a 
week, exploring in every direction the quartierlatin , 
where he had formerly lived, and which he regretted 
to find changed; he had*left in certain streets, now 
destroyed, ancient melancholies and long soliloquies, 
that he would have been glad to find there again. 
On returning from his walks, he always passed 
through the Hue de Tournon , stopping for some mo- 
ments opposite a house which he had never entered, 
but which, nevertheless, seemed to know, expect, and 
watch for him. Spiders’ webs have a presentiment 
of flies. On the eighth day, he crossed the thresh- 
old, rang at the porter’s lodge, asked for M. Prosper 
Randoce. The porter, who was half asleep in an 
arm-chair, sprang up at. once., 

“ Fourth story, door to the right,” answered he in 
a sulky tone. 

Hidier had already crossed the court-yard. The 
porter called him back and cried out: . 

“ Don’t you know that that man is never at home 
except in the morning?” 

Didier came back next morning. Although he 
usually dressed himself very carefully, he wore that 
day, not without design, a nearly threadbare coat, 
and a cravat carelessly tied, and not so fresh as it 
might have been. He ascended the stairs, which 
looked, sufficiently neat, and rang. A distant voice 
called out: “ Come in!” 

He entered, crossed a vestibule, pushed open a 
second door, and found himself in a large room, 
half parlor, half study, which had two arched win- 
dows on the street. Near the window, to the right, 
4* 


82 


PROSPER. 


there was a long writing-table, and sitting in front 
of this table a man, with neck bared, hair in disor- 
der, not unlike a lion’s mane, dressed in a sort of 
loose woollen jacket. This man turned his head, 
and Didier could not repress a start; at twenty-six 
his father must have had this face. 

“I have the honor of speaking to M. Prosper 
Randoce ? ” he said in a voice which had not quite 
its usual tone. 

“ Sit down,” answered i$he other, abruptly, and, 
turning his back, he resumed his writing. Didier 
sat down ; he profited by the respect accorded him, 
to take breath and regain his self-possession. He 
looked around him. The study of Prosper bore no 
resemblance to a landscape of Bohemia. Exquisite 
neatness, furniture in good order, mahogany, rose- 
wood, cane-chairs with gilt backs, two stuffed 
easy chairs, a carved cabinet ; in front of the 
writing-table, a large bear-skin, on the chimney- 
piece a marble clock with figures, and in the fire- 
place, a good, blazing fire. The thing which es- 
pecially attracted Didier’s attention, was a large 
table loaded with bric-a-brac, old brasses, statuettes, 
bronzes, some of them costly. For the first time in 
his life he m^de an inventory; he calculated in his 
head what might be the value of this table, and all 
that was on it; and then estimated, as well as he 
could, the price of the six chairs, the two easy 
chairs, the cabinet, and the clock. When he had 
completed his calculation, he turned his eyes again 
upon Prosper, who, with his back still towards him, 
seemed absorbed in his work. Opposite the writing- 
table was a mirror, and in this mirror Didier could 
perceive the face of Prosper. He assured himself 
anew that his half-brother bore a strong resemblance 
to their father; here was the same curly hair, the 
same narrow but high forehead, the same aquiline 
nose, the same slightly pointed chin. Only Prosper 


PROSPER. 83 

was handsomer, the regularity of his features 
greater. 

Prosper went on writing; Didier lost patience. 
He rose. 

“ I see, sir,” said he, “ that I have come at the 
wrong moment.” 

Prosper looked, or feigned to look, as though he 
were suddenly awakened; he shook his head and his 
disordered locks, as if to drive away the poetical 
demon which possessed him, pushed back with his 
heel the footstool on which his feet rested, and which 
was apparently his tripod of Delphi, laid down his 
pen with a solemn gesture, looked at Didier from 
head to foot. 

“ What can I do for you ? ” asked he, dryly. 

“ I do not know, sir, how to explain. This step 
must seem strange to you. I am a provincial who 
goes in for literature. I am passionately fond of fine 
verses, and groan over the scarcity of talent at the 
present day. A happy chance brought under my 
notice the Conflagrations of the Soul. This book 
seemed to promise a poet. I was seized with a cu- 
riosity to know the author. I have forced your 
door and am come to ask permission to see you. 
Pray, take my indiscretion in good part.” 

Prosper Randoce was sensibly affected; he had 
not been surfeited with success, and this incident 
appeared to him miraculous. A person who had 
read the Conflagrations , who admired the Con- 
flagrations^ who had perhaps made a journey to 
Paris, expressly to behold the author of the Con- 
flagrations! As he was somewhat short-sight- 
ed, he thrust forward his head, to contemplate 
more closely this rare and perhaps useful animal. 
He looked at him intently for an instant, then the 
improbability of such good luck began to disturb 
him; he feared that he was being caught in a snare, 
,that this person might be some practical joker; he 


PROSPER. 


84 

therefore took the chance of getting out of the 
affair by a caper. 

Half rising from his chair, “How would you 
like to see me ? ” asked he, “ full-faced, in profile, 
or three-quarters; seated, standing, in a shadow full 
of mysteries, or in full light? Choose the position, 
the attitude ; I will refuse you nothing.” 

“ Before I make my choice,” replied Didier, 
smiling, “ I should like to know your price.” 

“ Come,” thought Prosper, “ he is no fool! ” 

He instantly chose his line, and drew forward an 
arm-chair ; but some doubts still remained in his mind. 
“ W onderful man,” he said, “ noble friend of the 
muses, seat yourself here in the softest of my easy 
chairs. What can I contrive to make myself agree- 
able to you ? I will place a cushion behind your 
head, a footstool under your feet. Put yourself at 
your ease, and let me contemplate you. You are 
the miraculous man I have awaited for four years. 
I have seen you in my dreams. Divine apparition ! 
. . . Just Heaven ! can it then be that my poor 

nightingale has found a reader in the depths of the 
forests, and, still better, an admirer ! Frankly, I 
am not up to you. I am sure I have read the 
Conflagrations ; as to admiring them — Between 
ourselves, they are perfectly worthless.” 

“You afflict me, sir, but perhaps you are right. 
My friends joke me about my taste for poetry; they 
claim that I understand nothing about it.” 

Prosper bit his lip. “ This animal,” thought he, 
“ is rather too affable. Who the deuce asked him 
to share my opinion?” — “When I tell you,” he 
resumed, in a tone which betokened dissatisfaction, 
“ that they are absolutely worthless, let us try to 
understand each other. The Conflagrations are 
one of my youthful indiscretions; but of indiscre- 
tions there are various kinds — ” 

“ Oh, we understand each other,” interrupted Di- 


PROSPER. 


85 

dier. 44 When you compare your sin with those of 
others, it seems to you a venial one. We are very 
near to a mutual agreement. God forbid that I 
should claim the Conflagrations to be one of the 
masterpieces of the human mind! It only appeared 
to me, as I said just now, that they promised us a 
poet. I thought, as I read them, 4 this author has 
something to say; one of these days he will say it.’ 
A man who has something to say, is, in my eyes, 
an exceptional man. I wanted to assure myself 
that I was not mistaken. I am a bailiff, coming to 
remind your talent that the day for payment is near, 
that you are waited for, that the bill must be paid. 
I am convinced you are solvent.” 

Prosper’s confidence returned. He settled him- 
self squarely, began to puff himself up, passed his 
hand solemnly through his tangled hair. He felt 
the need of giving himself some exercise, and 
judged this a good opportunity for showing off his 
paces, and letting loose his thunder. Draping him- 
self in his loose coat, his eyes raised to the ceiling, 
he strode up and down the room. 

“Bailiff of my heart,” he said, “you were right! 
There is something here,” and he clasped both tem- 
ples with the five fingers of his left hand : “ there is 
something there,” and he struck his breast violently, 
shaking his head at the same time, like a horse 
playing on the bit. “You have confidence in me 
— it is well. One day you will say, with just pride, 
4 1 had divined this Prosper Randoce! ’ On that 
day, all the incredulous will boast of having believed; 
but your glory will not be taken away from you. 
You, who have shared the danger, shall share the 
triumph. Ah, well ! Yes, my good friend, this 
head. here is a vat; and in this vat is something fer- 
menting, working, boiling — beware an explosion! 
Happily, the staves are of old oak, and bound with 
iron. Have I something to say ? oh, I should think 


86 


PROSPER. 


so. Only let me get at my big trumpet — 1 swear 
to you, by my first pipe, that my voice will reach 
far. It will be heard by the universe, and all other 
well-known places. Truly, it does give me pleasure 
to find that you believe in me. It is a good exam- 
ple; all my old friends think me a played-out man. 
How, gentlemen, you see before you an honest fel- 
low, who has come full speed from the provinces, 
to inform me that it depends only on Prosper Ran- 
doce himself to be a great man. And why not ? 
I am a well-knit fellow. My figure is of the regu- 
lation height, and I have an iron will. Look at my 
elbows, my knees! My joints are all in good con- 
dition — no rancid grease there ! Look you, my dear 
sir, there is a chance now. All that is done to-day 
is not worth stooping to pick up; it is all rubbish. 
The most able only make a lucky hit, that’s all. 
Great Heaven! what has become of high art, grand 
poetry, the grand style?” (He pronounced the 
word grand rolling his r’s like a second-rate actor 
of former times, speaking of the u gr-r-ande na- 
tion.”) “ The god of the present day is Humbug. 
Do you like trickery ? It enters into everything. 
I see at the theatre only jugglers who pass a card 
on you, and the foolish public claps its hands, 
stamps its feet, brays, and goes into ecstasies. Take 
notice that there is no longer any need to deceive 
it. It likes to see through the tricks played upon 
it. It has seen the pea pass from the thimble ; it 
knows where it is, and brays only the louder. I 
might have done as others do — ah, no indeed! I 
mean to enter* success by the royal road, through 
the great gate of glory, driving myself on a tri- 
umphal car drawn by four white horses. I cordially 
despise the public. Contempt is my muse. Calig- 
ula was, I assure you, a clever man. If by one good 
blow of a sword — no, no concessions! Ah, silly 
public^ idiotic public! You want sleight-of-hand 


PROSPER. 


87 

tricks, do you? Look, here is art, poetry, style. 
Here are verses such as are only made at Jersey. 
You will kick back at first; you will shake your 
long ears; but I know you, you’ll end by braying. 
The man who stands firm is always right at last. 
People say, ‘he is a phenomenon.’ By Jove! let 
him who will succeed by bowing and scraping; as 
for me, I propose to succeed through insolence. I 
am rich in that stock — I have some to dispose of.” 

Whilst Prosper Bandoce was discoursing in this 
manner, and striding up and down the room, Didier, 
immovable in his chair, uttering no word, was 
watching his half-brother with extreme attention. 
“ He has my father’s cut of face,” thought he; “ but 
however striking, the resemblance is not perfect. 
It is not from him he has inherited his eyes.” 

They were strange eyes, those of Prosper: large, 
well-shaped, of the color of steel. Handsome, if 
you like, but with a disquieting beauty; ardent, and 
yet making you shiver; you felt a something under- 
neath them, and his glance, piercing despite his 
short-sightedness, was without fire. This look said 
clearly, “ I love only myself.” Eyes apart, Prosper 
was the very portrait of M. de Peyrols, but with a 
little less nobility and far more acuteness. The 
features were the same, but thinner, more refined, 
more chiselled. Paris is a great grindstone, which 
sharpens you and wears you out at the same time. 
A hunting-knife gets as keen an edge there as a 
penknife; there are some which have nothing left 
but the back, and which still cut like razors. 

On his side, Prosper cast, from time to time, a 
rapid glance at Didier. He said to 'himself, not 
without satisfaction, “How he listens to me!” It 
was long since he had had at his disposition a pair 
of ears so devoutly attentive. Unconscious of the 
real motive of an attention so courteous and so pro- 
longed, he attributed it to that provincial curiosity, 


88 


PROSPER. 


which wants to know everything for the mere pleas- 
ure of knowing, and which, in its candor, catches 
at words in their flight; whose patience is infinite — 
a species of curiosity unknown at Paris, because at 
Paris there is no time for it, there where hours are 
but minutes; because at Paris one devotes to one’s 
neighbor only the brief moment snatched between 
two fever fits; because at Paris men are separated 
into useful and noxious animals — the merely inof- 
fensive have no existence; because at Paris nobody 
cares to get at the bottom of anything, since the 
whole of everything is known already. 

After a brief pause, Prosper began his prancing 
again. 

“ I started badly, my dear fellow,” he resumed. 
“ The contagion had reached me. I, too, have sac- 
rificed to idols. I have hashed up in my time two 
wretched vaudevilles, which, after all, were as good 
as many others ; but I had bad luck. The first fell 
flat; a silent fall, a slip in the snow. The second 
was hissed. You cannot imagine what a disagree- 
able sound that is! The poor devil of an author in 
vain tells himself that there is only a cabal against 
his piece; his cheek seems on fire, he feels that 
something serious has taken place. I was crushed, 
half dead. Just through charity, some honest critic 
sprinkled my wounds with a handful of salt, not 
attic salt. By Jove! the pain roused me, I cried 
out like a blind man. It cost me dear; I was 
hided , flayed alive. Criticism, my good friend, is 
like a cavern. The great prophet Daniel went into 
the lion’s den; as for me, I have been in the crab’s 
cave. I have been close to these horrible beasts, they 
have caressed me with their claws; I still bear the 
marks of it. I was tremendously angry, ^md I ex- 
claimed: 1 I, too, belong to this parish ; I, too, will 
be a crab! ’ At these words the miracle took place: 
these two fingers here changed into a pair of claws, 


PROSPER. 


89 

which closed like pincers. I took to criticism, city 
items ; I had been devoured, I devoured in my turn. 
No, I am wrong, my dear fellow. I was not a crab, 
but a wolf with sharp teeth, a thin spine, a blood- 
shot eye. Every morning I came out of my den, 
looking for some success to devour, some talent to 
strip, and, if it might be, some great man to ran- 
sack and clean out. I had, nevertheless, my days of 
clemency. When there fell into my hands some 
stupid book, whose foolish author was a confirmed 
nullity, duly established, his papers all in order, then 
I intoned a hosanna. I pretended to have discov- 
ered a phoenix in the nest, I carried this flat-head 
round in triumph. 

“You can hardly imagine what tenderness bad 
critics show to bad writers ; they make use of them 
as a club to knock down talent with, not to mention 
that through all time the lame have borne good-will 
to the paralytic. And then, all at once, I wearied of 
the trade. Beating, beaten, clubbing, and clubbed, 
I felt the need of living in peace again. I drew in 
my claws, cast to the winds my harlequin’s wooden 
sword, cut my stick, disappeared, and pretended to 
be dead. No one knew what had become of me. 
Look, gentlemen, no more Scapin ! I had withdrawn, 
my dear fellow, to the top of my high tower; perched 
upon my esplanade, I conversed with the stars, I fra- 
ternized with the clouds, I chatted familiarly with 
the sun, or, stooping my head, I saw at my feet hu- 
man beings, the size of mites, swarming like ants. 
Thus have I known, as says the great Bossuet, the 
extremes of human things. Yesterday in the gutter, 
to-day in the clouds. In other words, abjuring Satan 
and his dodges, I put on the linen robe of the Le- 
vites. I n^ade myself the Eliakim of high art. I 
have given my heart to it, and hope it will give me 
something in return. I manufacture style, and that 
of the best kind. Do you see this real morocco 


90 


PROSPER. 


pocket-book? It contains the half of a drama, a 
gigantic, colossal work, the complete synthesis of 
the age! Patience! You’ll hear of it some day. 
One day Eliakim will be king, and the priests of 
Baal will bow the knee before him — 

“ ‘ The task is great and perilous, no doubt, 

But God, whose cause directs me, is my strength. 

’Tis time to finish our degrading bondage, 

And make the two tribes recognize their king.’ ” 

Thus saying, he handed the red portfolio to Di- 
dier. “ Weigh that,” said he. “Four pounds of 
grand style. What will the universe think of it ? ” 
But at this instant a thought struck him, he ap- 
plied his glass to his right eye, contemplated Didier, 
who was weighing the portfolio, and perceived that 
his overcoat was rather threadbare; “ This is some 
poor devil,” thought he. “ He has not come here 
for nothing. I wager the traitor is preparing to 
draw from his wide pockets a voluminous manu- 
script. This is an elephant in search of a showman.” 
He made a pirouette, took back his portfolio, and 
putting it under his arm, “My good fellow,” ex- 
claimed he, “ you wanted to see, and you have seen. 
Now you know what a great man is. Let us put an 
end to the expenses ; enough of posturing, the 
curtain falls ; the play is over ; let us put out the 
lamps. God have you in his holy keeping ! ” 
Didier arose and presented his card to Prosper. 
“ This is my address,” said he. “ I have seen the 
great man. I am filled with wonder at him. If 
you had anything else to show me, I should be en- 
chanted to receive you at my lodging.” This said, 
he bowed and left the room. 

“Perhaps I have gone a little too fast,” said 
Prosper to himself. “This big hobble-de-hoy is 
trying irony on me. It must be that his means al- 
low him this luxury.” Then, having examined the 
card attentively he locked it up in a drawer. 


PROSPER. 


91 


CHAPTER XI. 

Didier returned to his lodgings, little satisfied 
with this first interview. Prosper did not please 
him; of all the Randoces his imagination had 
shown him, this one was the most disagreeable. Ilis 
language, his manners, his portfolio, his four pounds 
of grand style — he could pardon him nothing. 
More than all else did his resemblance to their 
father sadden him ; henceforth there was certain 
proof. When truth is unpleasant, we accept it only 
conditionally; we reserve to ourselves the right of 
making sure by inquiry ; we surrender only after 
touching it with the eye and fingers. Didier 
had touched; it was no longer possible to doubt. 
Ill-pleased with his brother, he was but half-con- 
tented with himself. The expedient suggested by 
M. Patru had met with bad success, he had begun 
the campaign with a false move. “ A pretty begin- 
ning,” thought he, “ and a promising one ! I have 
no plausible pretext for going again to see Prosper. 
Will he return my visit? He must have a very 
small desire to see me again. I have played the 
part of a blockhead, and my coat did not announce 
a Maecenas. Has he ever taken the trouble to look 
at my card, and put down my address? Let us 
wait; there will always be time to think it over.” 

To employ his leisure, he procured some works of 
abstruse analysis, and took up again his mathemat- 
ics, which he had long abandoned. Of all species 
of study, this is the most absorbing. The most 
abstract, the one best fitted to make us forget the 
outside world. Didier plunged at once into his in- 
tegrals, so entirely, that whole mornings passed 
without his remembering that he had a brother who 
was called Randoce, and who dabbled in verses and 
created styles. In the afternoon he walked on the 


PROSPER. 


92 

boulevards ; in the evening he went to the Fran - 
cats. The rise of the curtain always caused in him 
an emotion full of charm ; he thought he saw lifting 
before his eyes the great drop-scene of life. Was 
he at last to know what there was behind it ? 

He was more than three weeks without any news 
of Prosper. He felt a little inclination to go back 
to Nyons. “ After all,” said he to himself, “ I have 
seen him, and I do not know what service I could 
render him. He has every appearance of health; 
he is not poor ; his furniture looked comfortable 
enough, and the pretty bronzes which ornament his 
round table must have cost him a good round sum. 
Report declares him to have dissipated his patri- 
mony, but surely there must be some remnants of 
it still which he has known how to put to good use; 
he must have laid up something when he was a 
crab. With all this, I do not see how he can need 
any advice from me. He is quite contented with 
himself, and but little disposed to consult me about 
anything. Some fortune-teller has said to him, 
Thou shalt be a king ! He is quite ready to don the 
royal mantle. Let us allow him to ascend his throne ; 
if his foot slip, we shall seek means to console him.” 

Some few days later, entering a cafe on the Boule- 
vard, Didier heard the name of his brother pro- 
nounced. He listened eagerly, and caught the 
following dialogue. 

“ By the way, I just now met Randoce. I had not 
seen him for ages.” 

“Nobody sees him. Does he still look like a 
plucked pigeon ? ” 

“Not at all. I don’t know at whose rack he 
feeds, but the fellow has picked up wonderfully.” 

“And he is helping others to pick up, too. I 
never could endure that fellow. Buttoned up to 
the chin, insolent as the devil, sewed up in mystery 
from head to foot, he is the king of posture-makers. 


PROSPER . 


93 

They say he used to strike attitudes in his nursery; 
the little beggar draped himself in his swaddling- 
clothes. W ell, what is he up to now ? Whose 
machine is he going to smash ? ” 

“ Our gentleman is at present creating style. He 
has merely two or three masterpieces on the stocks; 
he has discovered the poetry of the future; he is 
about to become an immense man.” 

“Of course! We all know that when a man has 
no talent, he sets about creating style, and poses 
for immensity. And what does this giant live on ? 
He owes me two francs.” 

“ He has not imparted his secret to me. People 
say he gambles; others, that he has come into an 
inheritance. Unless some woman of immense 
heart — one abyss calling on another. Somebody 
told me — ” 

At this moment, a friend of these gentlemen came 
up to their table and began to tell them some be- 
hind-the-scenes scandal. Nothing more was said 
about Randoce. Didier left the cafe, resolving to 
pass another month in Paris. 

Two days afterwards, when he least expected it, 
Baptiste announced M. Prosper Randoce. Didier 
took time to arrange his toilet a little, tied his cra- 
vat carefully, and appeared with an Apollo-like air 
before Prosper, who was humming a romance while 
he waited for him. The two brothers looked at 
each other with astonishment; they had some 
trouble in recognizing each other. “My provincial 
friend has quite the air of a nobleman,” thought 
Prosper, who had applied his glass to his eye. “My 
half-brother looks almost like a gentleman,” thought 
Didier. 

They sat down near the fire, and entered into 
conversation. Prosper had left at home, along with 
his monk’s robe, his cavalier speeches and manners. 
He had a good style, spoke sensibly enough about 


94 


PROSPER. 


all things, with a certain reserve as regarded him- 
self. On this day, he was in a vein of gentle mel- 
ancholy, which interested Didier. He bewailed the 
difficulties of life and of art. Formerly, he said, 
everything had seemed easy to him; but since he 
had renounced the vanities of minor literature, 
since he had taken, like Saint Paul, his journey to 
Damascus, since the sacred splendors of the Ideal 
had flashed upon him, he had become severe towards 
himself. He felt doubts about his vocation, his 
talent; he had phases of uncertainty, discourage- 
ment, disgust. A hard labor, that of the artist! 
Like Jacob, he must wrestle with God. To try the 
patience of his servants, this formidable God eludes 
their grasp, paralyzes their hearts, and anon plunges 
them into the lethargy of despair and impotence. 
Prosper drew a truly pathetic picture of the artist’s 
anguish, struggling with his subject, tormented by 
the demon, exhausting himself in the effort to in- 
corporate his dream in his work. Didier forgave 
him, in consideration of his good sentiments, some 
turgid phrases, some words six feet long, some 
rather high-flown hyperboles. He profited by the 
good disposition in which he found him, to hazard 
a few bits of advice, which were received with 
deference. They then talked of Shakespeare, and 
Prosper showed an enthusiasm which edified his 
brother. In short, they parted very good friends. 

A few days after, they met again. Prosper did 
the honors of his red portfolio to Didier, and read 
him several fragments of his drama, which were 
listened to with pleasure. To tell the truth, there 
were only parts of scenes in this portfolio, which 
contained the half of a masterpiece, disjecti mem- 
bra poetce. Prosper united with his talent for 
poetry a talent for reading still more remarkable. 
Nobody was more expert than he, in the art of roll- 
ing out his lines, and slurring over his expletives. 


PROSPER. 


95 


The next day, the two brothers strengthened their 
cordial understanding in the course of a walk which 
they took to Neuilly; and the following week, com- 
ing back from the JBois de Boulogne , they dined 
together at the Cafe Anglais. It was Prosper who 
drew up the bill of fare, and Didier who paid the 
score. On this occasion, the pontiff of high art 
displayed an astonishing vigor of stomach, and 
profound gastronomic knowledge. It was one of 
his sayings, that the fork is the first of scientific 
weapons. 

I can assure the reader that in these divers meet- 
ings, his company was not always equally agreeable 
to Didier. For hours together, he was simple, 
amiable, a pleasant fellow, almost modest; then all 
at once, came sudden puffs of literary vanity. 
“Devil take the hindmost! ” thought Didier, as he 
shook his head. He had come to find out that there 
were two men in his brother. One he called Ran- 
doce, the other Prosper; and he infinitely preferred 
Prosper to Randoce. 

Towards the end of December, he received a 
letter from M. Patru, and sent him the following 
answer: 

“-You wish me to draw his portrait for you. He 
is my height, with more hair than I have, pale com- 
plexion, a vigorous frame, clear-cut features. I do 
not like his eyes — they have a hard brilliancy. 
When they soften, his countenance has some charm, 
and women must find him fascinating. 

“ As to the rest, you have come to your own con- 
clusions. You don’t like literary people, and you 
have decided that my man (as you call him) is dis- 
sipated, and a Bohemian. I have not advanced so 
far as you. I suspend my judgment until I can 
get more ample information. I proceed slowly 
in my investigation; the business of questioner is 
not in my line, but I have eyes, and I use them. 


PROSPER. 


9 6 

“I have followed your advice; he does not know 
that I am his brother. To be frank, my entrance 
on the scene was awkward enough — Prosper took 
me for a fool. I appealed from that sentence, and 
I choose to believe that he has mitigated it. We 
see each other often. Do not imagine that he lives 
in a garret, or wears a coat out at elbows. He oc- 
cupies an apartment of three rooms, well furnished; 
he has a good outfit of clothes. What are his 
resources ? I know nothing about this. At the 
present moment he is earning nothing. He has 
renounced journalism, to devote himself entirely to 
a work of large scope, which is to regenerate liter- 
ature, and immortalize his name. My phrase is 
rather large, like his hopes. He does not, therefore, 
live by his work. Perhaps, after having squandered 
a part of his patrimony, he has been wise enough 
to settle down in time. However, I should not be 
surprised to learn that he gambles. He has the 
feverish pulse, the abrupt tones and variable humor 
of a man who keeps up constant relations with 
chance. Last week, his feet scarcely touched the 
earth; his gestures were those of a man who car- 
ries off everything, and when he spoke, he opened 
his mouth wide enough to swallow the sea and all 
the fishes in it. Day before yesterday, from his 
sombre air, I thought I could guess he had been 
sacked the night previous, in some gambling den. 
Perhaps I am mistaken; perhaps he is sombre or 
serene according as Rhyme sells him her favors 
cheap or dear. 

“ You ask me if he has any principles. What a 
question, ‘oh, simple-minded notary! Are we quite 
sure that we have any, you and I? We are honest 
men, because we cannot be anything else; but do 
you know of many systematic virtues in this world ? 
Frankly, * my man ’ is not a saint. The proof is, 
that he likes to boast of all the villanies which he 


PROSPER. 


97 


has not committed. The other day, he told me 
that he had more than once had an opportunity to 
sell himself; that magnificent bribes had been 
offered him, and he had refused the gifts of Artax- 
erxes. He also assured me that during the time 
he wrote theatrical criticisms, he had never black- 
mailed any one. Not to be behindhand, I told him, 
on my side, that one day I had remained alone, for 
five minutes, in the shop of a jeweller who had gone 
out to get change for my note, without pocketing 
anything. I begged him, should he ever write my 
biography, not to forget this trait. He answered 
that the case was very different. He was right, 
but I could not help regretting that he had reflected 
so much on this difference. 

“ You ask me if he has talent. I am tempted to 
believe so. He has read me two hundred verses of 
his own manufacture, in which I find something like 
inspiration, fire, bold and striking images. I prefer 
these verses, (God forgive me !) to all the Jar dins 
in the world; but I fear he is lazy. He is not mas- 
ter of his ideas ; they are his masters and lead him 
where they please. His portfolio is full of frag- 
ments of scenes. Will these fragments, collected 
together, ever form a finished work ? That is the 
question! The great drama he is now working on, 
in detached bits, is entitled The Son of Faust. It is 
to be the synthesis of the age. These big words 
frighten me. In the meantime, he is as proud of 
what he does not do as of what he does ! In liter- 
ature, as well as in morals, he attaches great value 
to negative merits, and if he boasts of never having 
blackmailed any one, he also makes a merit of 
writing no more for the newspapers, and making no 
more items or small stories, correspondences, or 
vaudevilles, or comedies in prose, .or romances. 
When he writes this litany to me, I think of his two 
vaudevilles, which were hissed, and of the fable of 
5 


PROSPER . 


98 

the fox. I, too, will write no vaudevilles hence- 
forth ; but, really, it seems to me, nothing can be 
easier. 

“ Do you take in the situation ? My man has re- 
nounced minor literature that he may consecrate 
himself to high art. He scorns mere talent, swears 
that he will show the world he has genius, or die for 
it. All very good ! I reproach him simply with 
speaking of high art in terms of trade. He piques 
himself on fashioning verses, which shall have chic j 
he also piques himself on creating styles. This 
word displeases me ; to my thinking, a man has 
style, he does not make it. What is certain is, 
that he looks upon his vocation with perfect seri- 
ousness ; he believes in his star ; the gods them- 
selves have announced to him that he has a mission 
to regenerate the theatre. 

“ The Son of Faust will be not only a master- 
piece, it will be an event. When he approaches this 
subject, his vast mane bristles, his eye flashes light- 
ning, he is the thunderer, Jove. And do not im- 
agine that he is acting. He is himself the first dupe 
of his exaggerations; his hyperboles mount to his 
head, he becomes intoxicated with his own figures. 
Poets may be very sincere people in their words 
and actions; but it is hard for them to be true. By 
the exigencies of their trade, they get into an en- 
thusiastic state over fables and fictitious beings; 
whatever heart they may have, they press into the 
service of their imagination. When their heart 
runs dry, it is but just that their imagination should 
repair it, and thus they come to the point of no 
longer distinguishing what they feel from what they 
invent; if they have an attack on the brain, they 
believe it to be a polypus on the heart. Randoce is 
extreme in everything ; no word seems to him too 
strong to expose what he thinks he feels. His ad- 
mirations are enthusiasms, his joys deliriums, his 


PROSPER. 


99 

melancholies despairs, his indignations furies. What- 
ever be the question, he sees immediately the ad- 
vantage to be drawn from the situation, the re- 
sources which it offers to eloquence; his head is full 
of tragic personages; without his suspecting it, it 
is they who speak for him, who embroider the can- 
vas. Some people are born on a platform. Tirade 
is the second nature of Prosper Randoce. 

“ Let us not slander poetry, my dear notary. That 
Prosper Randoce is not a scoundrel, let us thank 
the rich rhymes of romanticism. They have re- 
paired, as much as in them lies, the vices of his early 
education. 

“ ‘ 1 am not the rose,’ says the Persian proverb, 
‘but I have lived near it!’ Prosper is not a Po- 
chon; but having been educated by this just man, 
he has grown up under his shadow and sucked the 
milk of his learned wisdom. Happily, on arriving 
at the age of reason, he felt the demon of verse 
starting to life in his brain ; a muse, a demi-muse 
approached him; to purify the infected and vitiated 
air which he was breathing, she burned rosemary, 
incense, a little laurel, then she breathed on the 
scales which covered his eyes, and for the first time 
he discovered in the world something besides the 
mud of his native gutter. My father used to say 
that we must never despair of a blower who has 
imagination; we cannot know all that passes in his 
mind. With a taste for dreaming, he may one day 
take it into his head to become an honest man. I 
will not pretend, my dear notary, that Randoce 
adores virtue. To speak frankly, his morality ap- 
pears to me doubtful. He is tossed about and torn 
by contrary powers. His instincts struggle with 
his dreams, phalanx against phalanx; on one side all 
that he has inherited from his adopted father ; na- 
tive baseness, ugly remembrances, sordid calcula- 
tions, disordered appetites; on the other hand, his 


IOO 


PROSPER . 


literary ambitions, his desire for glory, worship of 
rhyme, nobler fancies. Pochon pulls on one side, 
poetry on the other. Which will be conqueror? 
This perpetual contention is a curious but fatiguing 
spectacle. I think I see a balloon to which a too 
heavily loaded car is attached. The balloon tries 
to ascend; if it were let go, it would mount to the 
stars ; but the car resists and brings it down again. 
If it be pricked ever so little, flop ! everything will 
fall into the gutter. To help Randoce to keep his 
balloon inflated, is the best service one can render 
him. And now you see why I do not smile, when 
he informs me that the Son of Faust will be an 
event, or when he boasts of having refused the 
treasures of Artaxerxes. All that is so much hydro- 
gen for our balloon. 

“My dear M. Patru, you have one fixed idea. 
You tremble, lest ‘our man’ levy a contribution on 
me. I would, with all my heart, open my purse 
and strong box to him, were he in need; but make 
yourself easy. He will not borrow one sou from 
me. He has broken with all his former friends; he 
was determined, so he says, to begin afresh ; but 
when a man has the taste for tirade, he cannot do 
without a confidant. His lucky star has brought 
him into contact, in the person of your servant, 
with an honest man, a simple soul who does not 
meddle with literature, to whom he can, without 
scruple, confide his projects and his hopes, and in 
whose presence his genius can always be posturing, 
an exercise eminently healthful. Our intimacy 
pleases him ; he feels all its value. I am his official 
listener; he will take good care not to make a cred- 
itor of me; that would spoil everything.” 

While reading this letter, M. Patru shrugged his 
shoulders more than once. He answered immedi- 
ately: “Carry out religiously the wishes of your 
father. If your brother is not in want, take good 


PROSPER. 


IOI 


care to make him no offers of service; that would 
be leading him into temptation, which is exactly 
what would spoil everything . I am an obstinate 
old fellow, my dear boy. Permit me to hold on to 
my suspicions. Assist, if you like, in filling the 
balloon, but during the operation, keep an eye on 
your pockets.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

On- the very day that he received M. Patru’s re- 
ply, Didier went to pay a visit to his brother. I 
have mentioned that Prosper Randoce was short- 
sighted. All clever people know how to turn their 
defects to good use. 

When Didier entered, Prosper, who was seated at 
his writing-table, turned his eyes rapidly towards 
him, then raised his arms to heaven, uttering a dol- 
orous exclamation, after which, leaning his elbows 
on the table, he covered his face with his hands. 

“ Ah Monsieur Dubief ! ” he exclaimed (this was 
the name of a dealer in objects of art), “ you area 
terrible man. People are not to be hunted down 
like this. On my honor, I am grieved to death, but 
to-day you will not get a sou from me. The stream 
runs low. Last night I played and lost. Do what 
you like — take away your bronzes, my sweet friend, 
and the little Venus, and the little ivory Christ. 
You tear my heart out. But what do you care? 
These stupid little things, do you see, were my con- 
solation, my joy, the delight of my eyes and soul? 
I had only to look at them, and my heart began to 
dance, my ideas took wings to themselves, rhymes 
grew in their head and feet, as buds burst forth in 
April on the ends of the branches. Henceforth 


102 


PROSPER. 


tliere will be nothing more here, nothing ! ” and he 
struck a great blow on his forehead. 

He had poured forth this little speech all at a 
breath, and with such volubility that Didier could 
not interpose a word. Finally he made himself 
known, and Prosper acted surprise with wonderful 
naturalness. 

“ Ah, w T hat! is it you, my dear fellow ? ” said he. 
“ You must blame my eyes for this; it is not the 
first trick they have played me; but then, why did 
you not speak ? It is your gray coat which caused 
my mistake. That crazy M. Dubief always wears 
gray, like you. Frankly, my conscience was uneasy 
on his account ; a troubled conscience calls up 
phantoms.” And at these words bursting into a 
laugh, “Come, come! I have my terror for my 
pains. Rest we, my lord, after this hot alarm ! 
Sit down, and let us talk on some more pleasing 
subject.” 

Didier sat down ; they talked of the theatre, but 
conversation flagged; Prosper seemed absent. 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” said his broth- 
er. “You are quite abstracted. Permit me to ask 
you a question. How much do you owe M. Dubief ? ” 

“ Ah, come, now; what has got into your head ? ” 
exclaimed Prosper, throwing himself back into his 
chair. “ Leave me alone about this devil of a man. 
I only think of him when I see him, or imagine I 
see him.” 

“ Answer me! ” insisted Didier. “ How much do 
you owe him. ? ” 

“Well, if you will have it so — oh, Heavens ! a 
trifle, a mere nothing, fifteen hundred francs. Let 
me alone, to-morrow I shall be in luck again. 

“ 1 Hector, I have good presage in my heart ; 

To-morrow, rest assured, I win the day.’ ” 

“If M. Dubief is pressing,” resumed Didier, 


PROSPER. 


103 

looking attentively at Prosper, “ I know a better 
way of paying him. Ask me to advance this sum 
to you.” 

Prosper’s eyes glistened. He took care to turn 
away his head so as to hide his emotion from Didier, 
then springing suddenly from his chair, 

“Ah, that, indeed! No, a thousand times no. I 
won’t borrow a farthing from you, my dear fellow. 
First, you are my friend, and I worship friendship. 
Money questions, you see, always begin by being 
delicate and sometimes end by being indelicate. Be- 
sides, you seem to me to be a charming fellow, an ex- 
cellent kind of man. Y ou would be the most accom- 
modating of creditors. With you, I should make 
no ceremonies. I should pay you, God knows when. 
Your indulgence would be fatal to my small moral- 
ity, of which I take the. greatest care.” 

“ Well, but it depends only on you to be punct- 
ual,” replied Didier. “ Good fellow as I am, I 
shall never refuse to be paid.” 

“ That would be all very well,” continued Pros- 
per, “ and if I were hard up for my dinner this 
evening, I should make no scruple of having re- 
course to you. But bronzes ! a V enus ! little loves ! 
all these things are superfluities. So much the 
worse for me, if I have expensive tastes. Send for 
one of those good citizens who are now passing in 
the street, and ask the first-comer, whether, in order to 
aid the manufacture of fine verses, Prosper Randoce 
requires a mahogany table, covered with costly 
trifles. He will say at once, ‘You ragamuffin, be 
just to yourself, and give thanks to Providence if 
it bestows upon you a shirt and a straw bed.’ This 
stout gentleman makes it a principle to believe that 
garrets were invented for poets and poets for gar- 
rets. Perhaps he has been told, too, that night- 
ingales sing better when their eyes have been put 
out.” 


104 


PROSPER. 


“ I am not bourgeois enough to reproach you with 
your bronzes,” interrupted Didier, with a slight im- 
patience. “ But I am too much your friend not to 
regret that the sight of a gray overcoat should 
awaken in you so startling an emotion.” 

“ Don’t fear emotions for me. What is talent ? 
A sort of fever which reasons. Calming potions 
are of no service to it. No one can get intoxicated 
on broth, and without a little touch of intoxication, 
you can’t expect inspiration. Formerly, my dear 
boy, I had at my heels a whole pack of creditors. 
Of all the devourers, only Dubief remains to me. 
Don’t take away Dubief from me. I am a very 
orderly youth. In the matter of small weaknesses, 
I have brought myself down to the fitting allow- 
ance. As I am, I possess a small income; in fact, a 
very small one, just enough to live upon and — ad- 
mire my wisdom! that is just what I use it for. I 
have drawn up my budget, or rather my two 
budgets, the ordinary, and the extraordinary, the 
budget of necessities and the budget of caprices. 
And see ! When I told you just now, thinking that I 
was speaking to Dubief, that my coffers were empty, 
was lying most impudently. There is in this drawer 
a rouleau of Napoleons to pay my rent next month. 
I am a model lodger, always ready to meet my bills. 
You see that I could pay something on account to 
Dubief, but the strictness of my principles does not 
permit me to take a centime from my budget ordi- 
nary to pay Dubief. All disarrangements are 
repugnant to my conscience. What the deuce! 
Either one has principles or one has not! To pay 
Dubief — that is a generic name — my Dubiefs are 
my fancies — formerly, to pay for my fancies, I 
made copy for a two-penny newspaper. I could do 
this now. My prose will command a good price 
yet; but principles are so troublesome! I have 
sworn not to write another line of prose, and I wil l 


PROSPER. 


105 

keep my word. Gambling is more honest. Don’t 
make a wry face! I speak only of a little game of 
baccarat, a quiet, discreet game! Can’t help it. I 
have a streak of audacious good luck. Yesterday I 
lost, to-morrow I shall catch up again, and Dubief 
shall have something on account.” 

This was the point to which he always returned. 
Didier made a great effort, and delivered a sermon 
in three heads against the madness of gambling. 
Prosper listened in silence ; he had risen from his chair 
and was walking slowly up and down the room, his 
head sunk between his shoulders, like a man bracing 
himself against a storm. Didier was, to tell the 
truth, a very poor preacher; sceptical by tempera- 
ment, he believed all moral truths to be half false. 
Such a disposition of mind is hardly favorable to 
eloquence. Buts and ifs are a great stumbling- 
block to an orator. Nevertheless, he held gallantly 
on. 

“ Let us make a bargain,” he began by way of 
peroration. “ I will advance you the fifteen hun- 
dred francs. You shall pay Dubief, and you shall 
promise me not to touch a card for fifteen days. 
There is a beginning to everything. During this 
time you must find out some other way of passing 
your evenings.” 

“ And the devil will lose nothing by it,” said 
Prosper. “ But, if I play no more, tell me, I beg 
you, where I am to procure anything to repay you 
with ? ” 

“ I shall wait patiently for the first representation 
of the Son of Faust. But I have something else 
to propose to you. You need not try to talk me 
into believing that the importunities of creditors 
and the emotions of a game of baccarat have ever 
awakened genius in any one. I distrust fever and 
feverish beings. Those who wish to write healthy 
verse must themselves be healthy. There is joy in 


io 6 


PROSPER. 


every creation of the first order — the joy of a mind 
which has freed itself from life, and looks upon all 
things from a higher point of view. Were I a poet, 
I should make it a duty to be happy; and for this 
purpose, I should strive to have few wants.” 

“Ta! ta! ta! ” struck in Prosper. “I see what 
you are coming to. Yes, we are gently taking the 
way to the garret again. Stop there, please! The 
garret pleases me not, and I have a holy horror of 
see-saws. But you said you had a proposition to 
make.” 

“ Yes, this is it. I have in Dauphiny, near Nyons, 
a rather pretty chateau. I shall return to it in a 
short time. If you are prudent, you will go with 
me. I offer you comfortable apartments, well aired, 
well lighted, as many rooms as you desire. You 
would have with inreach, woods, rocks, solitudes. A 
thorough silence ; we could keep all bores at a dis- 
tance. For a while, at least, you might forget Du- 
bief, all the gray overcoats, all the gambling-tables 
in the world, all the small and great servitudes 
which fetter your life. Free from all torment, tran- 
quil as a stag in covert, your heart would be in your 
work, and you would find a facility for composing 
and writing which would astonish yourself. Every- 
thing would flow as from a fountain, with freedom 
and joyousness. What freshness of style! What 
vivacity of coloring ! Yes, I insist that in six months 
from now, The Son of Faust shall be completed; 
and I will hang up at the door of my house an in- 
scription bearing these words: Here the great man 
wrote his first masterpiece .” 

While Didier was delivering himself of this 
speech, Bandoce made a strange grimace. “ On 
my word,” he exclaimed, bowing down to the 
ground, “you are a prodigy! I proclaim you as 
the very first man in the world for putting disa- 
greeable things in a pleasing light; but this is a 


PROSPER. 


107 

sort of first-class burial you are proposing to me. 
My service to your lordship! There is no breath- 
ing save in Paris, no working except in Paris, and 
there is more wit in one poor paving-stone of the 
j R ue Mouffetard , than in all the rocks of Dauphiny, 
of which you make your boast.” 

“ My lordship has not yet reached the hour of his 
departure. Promise me to reflect on my proposi- 
tion. You would do wrong to refuse it.” 

“Well, be it so ; I will reflect upon it — I can do 
anything to oblige my friends.” 

Didier withdrew. Half an hour later, Prosper 
held in his hands fifteen notes, of a hundred francs 
each, which Baptiste brought him. He counted 
and recounted them, and contemplated admiringly 
the little bundle, which seemed to him full of prom- 
ises. “Now truly,” said he within himself, “this 
de Peyrols is a man unlike every one else — a man 
of the olden times, a real treasure. What happens 
to me does not belong to the domain of history, 
but to that of romance. Here is a young fellow, 
living at Nyons, who reads poetry — miracle the 
first. He hears of the Conflagrations — miracle the 
second. He buys and admires them — miracle the 
third, and greater than both the others together. 
He comes in hot haste to Paris, on purpose to tell 
me that I am a great man, which I had already sus- 
pected. I receive him like a dog in a skittle-ground ; 
he is not discouraged. He undertakes to tame me, 
and at the first sign I make, — 4 Baptiste, go carry 
fifteen hundred francs to this great man, and ask 
his pardon for the great liberty.’ But what is the 
secret of all this ? Apparently, this most amiable 
nobleman was dying of ennui in the midst of his 
nobility, and to shake off his lethargy, for want of 
something better, the idea has struck him of play- 
ing the part of a small Maecenas — unless, indeed, 
he be affiliated with the society of St. Vincent de 


io8 


PROSPER. 


Paul. Nevertheless, he does not look devout, and 
his little homily, cold as ice, was more philosoph- 
ical than Christian. Prosper, my friend, let us take 
care how we seek to explain these sacred mysteries, 
unfathomable to our feeble intelligence. This, at 
least, is clear ! ” and again he passed in review the 
bank-notes, before locking them up in his desk. . 

It is not necessary to say that he promised him- 
self to keep this adventure secret. The modesty 
of Didier ran no risk — Prosper was in no way dis- 
posed to make his liberality public. He would have 
liked to render the treasure invisible to any eyes 
but his own, to keep it under lock and key. He 
was of the opinion of La Rochefoucauld, who says 
that an honest man is a hidden treasure, and that 
he who has discovered it, does well not to boast 
himself thereof. 

Next, as if to confirm the words of Didier (that 
happiness creates talent), he felt himself seized by 
a sort of fury for work ; and after passing his hand 
twice or thrice over his Ossianic brow, he wrote off 
at one dash a tirade of some sixty Alexandrines, 
which, when scarcely finished, he declaimed in a 
voice of thunder. There were, among the number, 
two or three which a great poet would not have 
disavowed ; the rest was a feeble and halting imi- 
tation of Hernani. After trying his hand at real- 
istic poetry, and becoming disgusted with physi- 
ology, he had returned to the great romantic models. 
His fault consisted in having too good a memory 
when he wrote, and in taking for the discoveries of 
his genius all the windfalls of his recollection. 
The Dotard , he loves her! and the Charlemagne , 
pardon ! were his two great strongholds. He stuck 
them into everything — with daggers, lances, rope- 
ladders, distant sounds of the horn through the 
dim shades, silken robes, plumed hats, and all the 
well-worn paraphernalia of romanticism. It is dan- 


PROSPER. 


io'g 

gerous to try and make a little trumpet echo the 
sonorous flourishes of the war-like clarion. 

When he had finished, he went off to dinner, 
beholding the future all rose-color, and humming, 
between his teeth, “ Didier, my friend, if you did 
not exist, we should have to invent you.” 

Didier, on his side, made his little reflections too. 
Had Prosper taken him for M. Dubief, or not? 
This important problem kept his mind in suspense; 
he did not know any way by which he could clear 
up his doubts. “ I am tempted to think,” he said 
to himself, “ that Prosper is sincere, and that Ran- 
doce is crafty. Prosper goes off at the first touch, 
he is not master of his first impulses. He has con- 
fessed to me, with much simplicity, that he has 
expensive tastes, and that gambling helps him to 
pay his way. Randoce has allowed him to say what 
he pleased. This Randoce knows me well — he has 
divined that frankness has for me an attraction which 
I cannot resist. It remains to be discovered whether 
it is Prosper or Randoce who is the near-sighted 
one, and which of the two imagined that my gray 
overcoat resembled that of M. Dubief.” 

Didier could not help addressing some reproaches 
to himself. He felt that he had executed indiffer- 
ently his duty as guardian ; had preached but feebly 
against gambling, and shown too much eagerness 
in offering the fifteen hundred francs. His easy 
nature, the extreme facility of his disposition, 
threatened, as M. Patru had written, to lead his 
brother into temptation. The next day, to relieve 
his conscience, he resolved to go to M. Dubief, and, 
while bargaining for some object of art, find out 
whether or not Prosper had paid his debt. M. Du- 
bief was a man easy to find, and he might be able 
to furnish him with some useful information as 
regarded his Telemachus. 

He set out ; at the door, and just as he had 


10 


PROSPER. 


already placed his hand on the knob, his heart 
failed him. The little investigation which he had 
proposed to himself was repugnant to his delicacy, 
lie turned at once and went away. Nevertheless, 
he was not long in reproaching himself for his 
weakness. He turned back again, and, his resolu- 
tion failing him anew, he lost a half hour in passing 
and repassing before the shop. Finally, coming to 
a decision, he entered with a deliberate aim, under 
pretext of examining a charming group of Andro- 
meda and Perseus, which was displayed in the win- 
dow. While he talked with M. Dubief, the name 
of Randoce was more than once on the very tip of 
his tongue — impossible to articulate it ! His lips 
grew rigid, and he withdrew, carrying off the 
Andromeda, about which he cared nothing, and 
without having ventured a single question. 

F or consolation, he repeated to himself that one’s 
end is often better attained through a generosity 
which takes care of nothing, than by an excess of 
petty precautions. His brother would be sensible 
of the delicacy of his mode of proceeding. By 
trusting everything to his word, he should pique 
his sense of honor. To show entire confidence in 
him was helping him to inflate his balloon. What 
do we not say to persuade ourselves that in follow- 
ing the bent of our inclinations we are acting on 
principle ? 


CHAPTER XIII. 

One evening, when it was snowing heavily, 
Didier, having renounced all idea of going out, 
wrapped himself in his dressing-gown, and seated 
himself comfortably by the fire. With his feet 


PROSPER. 


Ill 


stretched out on the fender, he opened a volume of 
Shakespeare, and read once more the Midsummer 
Night's Dream. 

Touching him with her wand, Titania transported 
him in a twinkling into that wood, 

‘ ‘ where the wild thyme blows, 

Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.” 

Before his eyes fluttered a troop of fairies, some 
sprinkling with rubies the golden robe of the prim- 
rose, others, their hands interlaced, dancing togeth- 
er on the border of a clear stream; others, again, 
stripping his wings from the bat to dress sylphs 
with them, or pursuing the screech-owl which all 
night long insults and scolds the spirits of the air. 

Didier had been for some time lost to earth, when 
suddenly, towards eleven o’clock, a violent ring at 
the bell shook the whole house. An instant after- 
wards the door of the drawing-room opened, and 
Prosper entered tumultuously with his hat on, to the 
great astonishment of Baptiste, who had no idea of 
any one’s presenting himself so cavalierly before 
Monsieur. Prosper’s face was glowing, his eyes 
flashed ; one might suppose, without wronging him, 
that copious libations had accompanied his dinner. 
He was wrapped in a long cloak of a dark gray col- 
or, which hung down to his feet, and in the folds of 
which he had something concealed. This something 
was surely a woman, for Didier could see protrud- 
ing from underneath the cloak, by the side of his 
brother’s boots, two other little boots of prunella. 

“ Guess what I have here! ” exclaimed Prosper. 
“ How much will you give me for it ? ” As Didier 
did not utter a single word, “ Stupid question,” he 
continued, “ what I have here I would not'give either 
for gold or for silver, and were you to ofler me in 
exchange your seven castles of Bohemia, to render 
the exchange equal, you would still owe me some- 


I 12 


PROSPER. 


thing. Attention! The play is about to begin. 
You are permitted to behold and even to touch. 
Companion of my poverty, consoler of my sorrows, 
angel of my life, muse of my genius, come forth 
from the darkness in which your beauty is hidden! ” 

At these words the cloak parted, and showed Di- 
dier the most extraordinary pair of eyes he had ever 
looked upon. 

“ Her name is Carminette;” continued Prosper. 
And taking the young girl by both hands, he made 
her execute a pirouette. “Well, what do you think 
of her ? Are you a judge ? What do you think of 
this pretty little irregular face, and this wild head- 
dress? Perhaps you prefer the Venus of Milo. 
Greece was but ignorant, after all. Hurrah for little 
turned-up noses! And you, my child, be prudent. 
Monsieur is my friend, and what is more, a noble- 
man. Don’t break anything in the room, restrain 
yourself, correct your language, and whatever we 
may say, make no commentaries in your dragoon 
style.” Then, leading her up to Didier, “ Look at 
'her well, pretty soon you shall hear her. You, my 
dear fellow, have been under a lucky constellation. 
You are the first man to whom I have shown this 
tenth muse. I keep her hidden from every eye, un- 
til the hour has struck for revealing her to the 
world. This little girl here is a prodigy, a future 
star. She will surpass the most famous models; all 
that is most boasted of to-day will pale before her 
glory. One of these days all the cafes chantants 
will dispute for her and outbid one another. She 
has a hundred thousand francs income in her throat. 
You shall judge presently.” 

Didier stirred no more than if he had been a log. 
Carminette had bent towards him, and held him 
under the fire of her gaze. Those wild-cat eyes, 
whose scratch he could feel, caused in him a singu- 
lar sensation of uneasiness. He had just been 


PROSPER . 


113 

plunged in the fairy visions of Shakespeare. His 
head was still full of Helenas and Hermias, of Hip- 
polytus and Titania, a whole legion of aerial phant- 
oms, everything that flutters and hums in the depths 
of the woods on a summer’s night, and all at once 
he found himself in the presence of a wicked little 
half worn-out silk dress, a little girl who was not 
young, an urchin who seemed to be a woman, a 
woman who was something like a dragoon, a very 
green and unripe fruit, a beginning which was al- 
ready an end. No more pages to turn ; the first 
word in the book was like the last. Neither coun- 
tenance, nor beauty, nor grace, and yet, strange to 
say, it was impossible to take your eyes off this ugly 
thing. It was a charm, or rather a spell ; she at- 
tracted your gaze, as the magnet attracts iron. 
Neither sex nor age; she had leaped over life at 
one bound, and found herself at the other end with 
her cheeks still rosy. Her smile showed that she 
had nothing more to learn, and there was, at the 
same time, something of simplicity in her effront- ♦ 
ery. She could not have invented anything herself, 
but she had been under skilful masters, who had 
instructed her in life; her memory being good, she 
had her lessons at the end of her fingers. Titania 
and Carminette ! What a contrast ! The young 
girl divined in some sort the impression which she 
was making, and smiled. 

“ My good friend,” said she to Prosper, “ we must 
go. I frighten this gentleman.” 

“ There have been heroes,” said Prosper, “ who 
have been agitated at the sight of a shepherdess.” 

“ Ah ! Excuse me,” said Didier, shaking off his 
awkwardness. “I am a provincial beholding for 
the first time a star. All novelties move me to as- 
tonishment ; luckily, my astonishments do not last 
long.” 

“He has found voice again,” said Carminette, 


PROSPER. 


114 

executing a pas de Zephire. “ Now he has begun ! 
Presently we shall have a speech ! I should prefer 
a gloria .” 

Didier rang for Baptiste, and ordered him to 
prepare a punch, after which Prosper began in 
pompous terms the biography of Carminette. This 
humble stitcher of shoes had been discovered by 
him at a public ball, where she was vainly seek-- 
ing to make her fortune, most men being too 
stupid to imagine, when they see a diamond in the 
rough, what the same jewel will be when set. He, 
Prosper, with his eagle eye, had instantly divined 
Carminette, and the miraculous genius which lay 
dormant in this uncultivated head, as fire sleeps in 
the veins of the pebble. But for him the world 
would have been forever deprived of this star. He 
had provided for her necessities and taken charge 
of her education; he composed for her a whole rep- 
ertory of songs which he taught her to sing and 
act, instructing her, besides, in the four liberal arts, 
that is to say, walking, dancing, dressing her hair, 
and laughing. The noviciate of Carminette was 
drawing to its close ; very soon Prosper would 
launch this wonderful creature, whose talent would 
burst like a thunder clap upon wonder-struck Paris. 
She was his child, his pupil, his discovery, his work, 
his invention, he had imposed upon himself for her 
sake the heaviest sacrifices; she would repay him a 
hundredfold for all he had advanced. An immense 
future awaited this immense genius. 

It has been remarked that every writer has a fa- 
vorite expression, which comes back incessantly to 
his pen. In such a page of Bossuet, may be found 
seven times the word great ; noble was dear to Buf- 
fon. Immense was Prosper’s word. In himself, 
out of himself, he could perceive naught but im- 
mensities. Carminette listened to him in silence, 
while he sounded her praises. No one knows what 


PROSPER. 


115 

she thought of it all!! Only, when he spoke of all 
that she cost him, she cast an expressive glance at 
her ragged dress, and muttered sententiously be- 
tween her teeth: “Whoever wants to use the mule 
should get her shod,” and then she began to trot 
about the room, making her fingers snap like casta- 
nets, examining everything, opening all the drawers, 
subjecting all that they contained to the threefold 
examination of her nails, her eyes, and her tongue 
— then, remembering that her hair was in disorder, 
she glided into the dressing-room, to which she 
found her way as if she had known every inmate 
of the house. 

There she threw everything into disorder, broke 
two scent-bottles, and reappeared with her hair ar- 
tically dis- arranged, and looking as saucy as her face. 

Didier began to get accustomed to her. In vain 
Carminette whirled around him, scratched him with 
her eyes, bit him with her smile, hen ever winked. 
He was in a fair way to discover that stars are less 
complicated than it would seem. 

Baptiste brought the punch. As soon as Car- 
minette had emptied her glass, “ My dear child,” 
said Randoce to her, “the moment has come to 
give Monsieur a specimen of your skill. Attention ! 
my child ! Do honor to your master. Plenty of 
spice, and serve hot ! ” 

Rising to her feet, her nose in the air, her hands 
on her hips, she struck up a song entitled The 
Galloping Cow! a bundle of nonsense, three- 
quarters of which had no meaning for Didier. His 
first impulse was to stop his ears. Carminette had 
a sharp, rough voice, which pierced the tympanum, 
and falsetto notes, which rent it. This voice hardly 
sounded human; sometimes it was like the groan- 
ing of a door, creaking on its hinges, sometimes like 
the screaming of a parrot and the various cries of a 
fowler imitating different birds. Hardly, however, 


ii 6 


PROSPER. 


had she begun the second couplet, when Didier was 
seized with a curiosity stronger than his repugnance : 
this strange, bedeviled music had a sort of spice 
which he found alluring. He struggled for some 
time against this unwholesome pleasure, then yielded 
to it, and became all eyes and ears. In what strange 
nooks does skill take up its abode! Carminette had 
marvellous ways of opening her mouth, of closing 
it, of throwing out her notes, or retaining them, of 
moving her head, shoulders, lips. She uttered the 
words, and left the thing to be guessed. Each one of 
her intonations was rich in double meanings; her 
eyes and smiles seemed to claw you and take the 
piece out. And how describe her gestures ? Noth- 
ing could be more a dmirable in its way than the fillip 
with which she accompanied the refrain of each 
verse, a fillip capable of casting to the winds every- 
thing like morality, all the civil authorities, and 
every recognized worship. This fillip was a master- 
piece, an unanswerable protest against the estab- 
lished order of things; it said clearly: “ Nothing ex- 
ists any more.” For the rest, Carminette knew her 
own value, and took a serious view of it. Like 
all great artists, she aspired to perfection, she 
pursued her ideal, which consisted in the last 
touch of the free and easy. At this moment she 
was almost handsome. She was a muse of the 
back slum, a muddy and weather-stained muse, 
born in a gutter, at a moment when a star was 
looking at itself there, and who gathered up in 
her hands the mire of her native Hippocrene to 
throw it in the face of the universe. Haughty, 
grand, her nostrils quivering, turning her bold gaze 
in every direction, she expressed in her singing, her 
looks, her gestures, a passion which is, I believe, of 
modern invention, and which might be called the 
contempt of contempt. She had ceased to sing, 
but Didier still listened. liecovering himself, he 


PROSPER. 


n 7 

shook liis head and drummed for a moment on the 
table, then, turning towards his brother, he said to 
him, in a sardonic tone : 

“ Permit me to congratulate you, my dear friend. 
I am overwhelmed by what I have just heard. You 
know how to make everything work together. Mile. 
Carminette is an angel, as you say, and this angel is 
a gold mine besides.” 

But Prosper was not entirely satisfied. In his 
opinion, Carminette had missed certain points, and 
failed in certain effects. He reproved her for these 
faults with a magisterial gravity ; represented to 
her that art has infinite delicacies which are attained 
only by long and persevering practice. He made 
her repeat one verse, the beauties of which she had 
not sufficiently brought out. Garcia himself, giv- 
ing a lesson to Malibran, or Perugino making the 
young Raphael draw again, for the tenth time, the 
soft profile of the Madonna, could not exceed him. 
Even the famous fillip left something to be desired. 
It was not yet the ideal fillip of Prospers dreams. 
He said to Carminette, “Polish and re-polish it, 
incessantly — ” 

“ You are really too exacting,” interrupted Hi- 
dier. “ Ho not scold her ; she is working bravely 
towards perfection. If she is not as yet absolutely 
accomplished at all points, there is, nevertheless, 
very little wanting to it. I drink to her immense 
future.” 

At these words, he offered Carminette a glass of 
punch, but she turned her back on him. She began 
to perceive that his smile was tinged with irony. 
Now that she no longer felt constraint in his pres- 
ence, he bored her. She curled herself up in a 
corner of the sofa, and soon, stretching out her 
grasshopper legs on the damask cover, proceeded 
to taste the sweets of an angelic slumber. . 

While the Star slept, her showman emptied glass 


1 1 8 


PROSPER. 


after glass. Didier hoped that these frequent liba- 
tions would make him expansive, and that, if skil- 
fully interrogated, his brother would pour out to 
him all the secrets of his life. It was not so at all. 
The more Prosper drank, the more did he seem 
master of himself. He remained perched on the 
high summits of theory, and did not once descend 
to earth. 

“ I am very glad to see,” said Didier to him, “ that 
high art does not absorb all your time. It leaves 
you leisure to compose pieces — how shall I phrase 
it ? — in a style more easy, more familiar. Y ou carry 
on everything at once — the Son of Faust and street 
songs.” 

“ I do everything that belongs to my profession,” 
replied he, abruptly. “ You will see fine sport, if the 
strings do not break. Is it not Socrates who says 
that we must despise nothing ? The theatre of the 
country fair, the Grand Opera, Bohemia, Parnassus, 
what matters it ? Art is always art, and one set of 
theatrical lamps is as good as another. I put style 
into my street songs — style is everything. This 
little girl has it, and I beg you to believe that I 
have taken pains to impart it to her. Deuce take 
all pedants ! Whatever the artist be, it is style 
that makes him ! Let Pierrot put on his white 
paint ! if he has style, I salute him king. Voltaire 
has uttered a fine saying : ‘ Give to your being all 
imaginable modes ; ’ which signifies £ try to have Car- 
minettes, try to have duchesses — 'from one pole to 
the other extend thy immense arms ! ’ I have Car- 
minette ; I still await my duchesses.” 

He rose, leaned against the chimney-piece, passed 
his hand through his hair, and in a sombre, senten- 
tious voice exclaimed, “ What is a poet ? A com- 
plete man — ” 

“ To express it in one word,” interrupted Didier, 
smiling, “ an immense man.” 


PROSPER. 


1 19 

“ I have said a complete man,” he replied. “ The 
man who has seen, observed, comprehended and 
felt all things, he is a poet. Pie has ten souls, ten 
lives : Pipelet, the porter, has hut one, and such a 
one ! There are two species of men, those who 
produce, and those who enjoy. The poet alone is 
at once a producer and an enjoyer ; he produces 
because he enjoys. As chyle transforms itself into 
blood, his pleasures convert themselves into images 
and melodies. He sings because he loves ; he 
loves because he has need of song. Nightingales 
do the same. Allow him to be egotistical. If 
Pipelet is happy, that interests only Pipelet ; there 
is only just enough for himself. But when the poet 
enjoys, he makes the whole universe share in his joy. 

“ His transports are public felicities. Oli pro- 
found mystery of inspiration ! The subtle aroma 
of one drop of fine mocha, the savor of a partridge 
cooked to exactly the right point, the perfume of a 
rose or of an almeh — what is all that, you say. 
And I say to you, this aroma, this savor, this per- 
fume, is latent poetry. The idea is there, intangible, 
invisible ; it enters into the brain of the poet, and 
issues forth again with wings-, clothed in gold, in 
purple, glowing in imperishable beauty. This is 
what we call a Masterpiece. Give then to the 
poet, mocha, almehs, and all the goods of this 
earth to his heart’s content. You will be rewarded 
in this world, and in the next. There are days 
when I die with longing to rub between my fingers 
necklaces of pearl, aigrettes of rubies, rows of dia- 
monds. Their touch would bring to my mind ideas 
which no one has ever had, which no one will ever 
have. At other times I dream of a tun of gold. 
Alas, my cask is empty, it is that of Diogenes. On 
my honor, men are stupid. Take from Pipelet his 
crowns and give them to the poet, after which you 
shall explain to Pipelet that you are expropriating 


120 


PROSPER. 


them in the cause of public utility; you owe him, I 
think, thus much explanation. As for me, I wish 
that in all civilized countries there might be in- 
scribed every year on the budget a sum of ten 
millions dedicated to procuring enjoyments for 
writers. Each one might be served to his own taste. 
Distributed with intelligence, these ten millions 
would hatch masterpieces by hundreds ; a great age 
would open for literature. But now ! we imagine 
ourselves civilized, and among so many princes who 
profess to protect the arts, is there a single one to 
whom the fancy has occurred of seating a poet on 
his throne and saying to him, ‘ Put yourself at your 
ease, my boy, and reign in my place for six months, 
on the sole condition that you shall relate to us 
exactly what you discovered in the heights above.’ ” 

“And suppose that the poet were to imbibe a 
taste for the throne, and refuse to come down ? ” 
objected Didier. 

“ That would be too much honor for the throne,” 
replied Prosper. And warming up, “ Race of thick- 
headed burghers, riggers of' the stock market, 
moralists of the barrack, courtiers of materialism, 
scorners of the things of the mind, what matters it 
to you, whether society has genius to act before 
it ? All this must change, I swear ! The time is 
ripe for it; we will make the world over. In a new 
society, genius shall be the spoiled child of the 
legislator. Well lodged, well fed, he shall have 
everything under his hand to patronize his brain. 
He shall be gorged with pleasures. From his youth 
upwards, he shall be surrounded with beautiful 
things, beautiful furniture, rich stuffs, fine pictures, 
glorious statues, lovely women. Women espe- 
cially! We must have many, the dark and the 
fair, Malay beauties, beauties of Tonga, kitchen 
maids, Bayaderes and Houris. The poet who had 
tried all the varieties of love, would be greater 


PROSPER . 


12 1 


than Shakespeare, greater than Homer. What a 
rich collection of colors ! what a prodigious di- 
versity of shades! He would possess every tone, 
every style; the fierce and devouring -suns of Af- 
rica, the melancholy moons of the north, the infinite 
stretch of the savannas, the silence of deserts, the 
mystery of mists ; he could bring the whole world 
into his work. A seraglio ! I must have a seraglio ! 
Alabaster neck ! Coral lips. Star of the morning, 
torment of the soul ! hurry up ! My heart is large 
enough to lodge you all. You shall give me hap- 
piness. I will give you glory. A seraglio and tuns 
of gold! I need only these, and I will reckon my 
days by masterpieces.” 

Thus spoke Randoce, with a stentorian voice, his 
eye sparkling with covetousness, his arms out- 
stretched and trembling. Didier looked with as- 
tonishment at the bent fingers of his half-brother ; 
it seemed to him that he saw two claws eager to 
seize, or rather two gaping gulfs, ready to swallow 
without delay all the mines of Potosi, all the 
diamonds of Brazil. 

“Perhaps you are right,” answered he coldly. 
“ But if you reckon in this way, then the greatest 
of poets would be the Grand Turk. You will plead 
that he is a cunning fellow, who has made up his 
plan to utter nothing, and that if you were in his 
place — well — who can tell ? See how inn ocent I am ; 
until to-day, I had thought that it was imagination 
which made the poet. I do not wish him to suffer; 
poverty keeps a man down ; but why does he need 
a throne, and a fee simple of the universe ? Grasp- 
ing after what he needs, he will have something to 
dream about. And look,” added he, pointing with 
his finger to the sleeping Carminette, “ why may not 
this charming girl be to a man of imagination a 
whole seraglio in herself ? And what prevents you 
from seeing in her, by turns, according to the need 
6 


122 


PROSPER. 


of the moment, a stitcher of hoots, a star, a duchess, 
a Malay beauty, an almeh, a coral mouth, and a tun 
of gold?” 

Prosper shrugged his shoulders. He approached 
the sofa, and crossing his arms, looked intently at 
Carminette; then, shaking her up, he set her on her 
feet, wrapped her in his cloak, and drew her towards 
the door. 

“ Come, let us away, my poor girl,” said he, “ they 
are laughing at us.” 

Just as she was going out, Carminette, now thor- 
oughly awakened, turned abruptly towards Didier 
and sent him across the room, in token of farewell, 
a fillip which this time left nothing to be desired. 

Didier walked a long time up and down his room, 
his hands behind him. If Carminette had said, as 
she went away, “ I shall come back to-morrow,” he 
would willingly have taken her at her word. “ Shall 
I never have done with my curiosities ? ” thought 
he. “ I know just how long they last,” and by a 
caprice of imagination, he at once thought of his 
cousin, of her golden hair, her wealth of poppies, 
a remembrance almost effaced from his memory. 
He was ashamed cf the involuntary comparisons 
which presented themselves to his mind ; he asked 
pardon of Madame d’Azado for them. For an hour 
he paced to and fro, looking by turns at the sofa on 
which Carminette had stretched herself, and the 
chimney-piece against which Prosper had leaned 
while uttering his speech from the throne. “ It is 
strange,” he said to himself, “ my brother and I are 
very unlike, and yet we resemble each other. We 
both have a horror of the life of ordinary people ; 
but we do not use the same means to escape from it.” 

Finally he went to bed. I know not whether the 
fumes of the punch were working in his brain; but 
until daylight returned, he beheld in his dreams, 
Carminette and Malay beauties. He awoke late; 


PROSPER. 


123 

hardly had he recovered his spirits when he made 
reflections very different from those of last night. 
What contributed to this was the state of disorder 
in which his dressing-room appeared. The star had 
left there too visible traces of her brief passage, in 
one corner a towel rolled up like a stopper, brushes 
lying in the middle of the floor, a basin with its 
edges nicked, on his toilet table two broken scent- 
bottles. 

Didier reproached himself for his tolerance, and 
returned firmly to his role of Mentor. “ This, then, 
is the situation,” said he to himself. “ My amiable 
brother supports a prodigy whose talent he pro- 
poses to make use of. Am I to contibute to this 
commercial enterprise? Where have my fifteen 
hundred francs gone? Yesterday, although he 
eluded my questions, Randoce showed me the in- 
most secrets of his soul and of his eyes. . He has a 
boundless avarice. Setting aside the question of 
genius, this is the only immense thing that I can 
discover in him. Should I render him a service by 
becoming the banker of his appetites ? It is advice 
he needs ; I will give him some to ease my con- 
science.” 

He was greatly astonished, some hours later, when 
Prosper presented himself before him, with a very 
business-like countenance, and taking from his 
pocket-book fifteen notes of a hundred francs, said: 

“ My dear friend, I have come to pay my debt. 
It weighed upon me. You know what are my little 
ideas about friendship. Do not be anxious about 
anything. Dubief is paid. Here is his receipt. 
Nevertheless, I have kept my promise to you. I 
have not been gambling; some money coming in on 
which I had not reckoned, has set me going again.” 

Full of wonder at this most unexpected incident, 
Didier made some difficulty about accepting the 
notes; he was obliged to yield, as his brother insisted 


124 


PROSPER. 


in a tone which admitted of no reply. Then he 
rose, opened the cupboard, in which he had put 
away the Andromeda , and offered Prosper this 
charming group of Puget. 

“ Will you not at least allow me,” said he, “ to offer 
you this little trifle ? I bought it expressly for you. 
Baptiste shall carry it at once to your apartment.” 

Prosper was not much surprised at Ending the 
Andromeda in the .hands of Didier. Seeing no 
longer the group in the window, he had made in- 
quiries of Dubief. Neither did the gift astonish 
him. He had felt that the Andromeda would be 
his. He had, as we know, principles, and held it for 
certain that Providence, sooner or later, rewards 
virtue. Only one must wait until the time of pay- 
ment, and sometimes the note has many days to run; 
one often loses patience. But if nothing aston- 
ished Iiandoce, he was nevertheless greatly pleased; 
he had long known this precious piece from having 
tried to cheapen it more than once. Satisfaction 
shone in his eyes; he spoke of Puget and of the 
plastic arts like a connoisseur, without phrases, with- 
out hyperbole, and kept his brother for an hour quite 
charmed with his conversation. When he had gone, 

“Let me not be too hasty in judging him,” 
thought Didier. “ Perhaps he is a man of honor. 
We shall make something of him yet.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Carminette was not the only acquaintance that 
Didier made through Prosper’s intervention. One 
day the latter proposed to present him to an 
authoress whose wit and talent he praised highly. 


PROSPER . 


125 


“ I have spoken of you to Madame Lermine,” said 
he. “ She desires to see you ; she likes original 
people. I should say to you beware , oh knight! 
were she not tending towards the fifties. However, 
there are still traces of beauty.” 

It was at the age of forty-five that Mme. Ler- 
mine, to console herself for the decline of her 
beauty, had brought out an anonymous collection 
of elegies, which no one noticed except Randoce 
alone, he being then in the way of writing criti- 
cisms, and reserving all his praises for inoffensive 
mediocrities. He puffed up to the skies the azure- 
tinted volume, and proclaimed the author to be a 
poet of genius against whom journalism darkly con- 
spired to be silent. It may easily be believed that 
Madame Lermine was thankful to him for his proc- 
lamation; she testified to him in the most pressing 
terms, her desire to know “ the only man who had 
understood her,” and from that day Prosper had 
become a constant visitor at her house. Didier 
thought himself obliged to accept the proposal of 
his brother ; he was glad to pass in review his dif- 
ferent acquaintances. One Wednesday evening he 
allowed himself to be taken to Madame Lermine’s 
house in the Rue Joubert. On the way Prosper 
explained to him that M. and Madame Lermine did 
not live on the best terms; there existed between 
them neither suitability of disposition nor conform- 
ity in tastes. Contrary to the usual state of things, 
it was the husband who went to confession, and the 
wife who played philosopher. 

Son of a former prefect of the South, who had 
signalized himself under the Restoration by the 
ardor of his zeal, and the somewhat fierce displays 
of his orthodoxy, M. Lermine had adopted all the 
opinions of his father, divesting them at the same 
time of all their harshness. The most good-nat- 


126 


PROSPER. 


ured of men, endowed with a lively but small im- 
agination, and with a great facility of expression, 
he was a religionist of petty observances and petty 
practices; you saw at once that he had the soul of 
a beadle, and felt himself to be obeying an order 
from above when he sat in a council of church- 
wardens and stalked up to the reserved seats. 

As generous as he was credulous, he had been the 
prey of all the petty intrigues of the Sacristy, of 
all the undertakers of pious labors, who had made 
his purse bleed freely; but it was not alone the con- 
trivances of others that had compromised his fort- 
une, his own had contributed to that end. “ Help 
thyself, ” says the proverb “ and Heaven will help 
thee.” M. Lermine had come valiantly to his own 
aid. He was not wanting in ambition, and piqued 
himself on having ideas. A resolute champion in 
the good cause, but with nothing in him of the old 
soldier, he burned to signalize himself in a pacific 
crusade against the spirit of the age. According to 
him, it was by seizing on the imagination, that the 
church could make conquest of consciences ; she 
must try to bring within her sphere all the arts; the 
eyes once charmed, all hearts would follow; ten 
masterpieces, impregnated with the Catholic gen- 
ius, would suffice to make the whole world Chris- 
tian again. Consequently he believed it the first 
duty of every good Catholic to fabricate master- 
pieces, and he must contribute his share. It is 
well known what ravages one fixed idea may make 
in a narrow brain. M. Lermine thought himself 
obliged to preach by example, and to do every- 
thing in person. In his youth lie had handled the 
chisel a little ; he persuaded himself that there was 
in him the material of a great sculptor. He had a 
sumptuous studio built for himself, and it was soon 
filled with his clay models : he took into his service 
two workmen, and one ornamentist, procured at 


PROSPER. 


127 


great expense the finest marbles, and sounded the 
tocsin for the carnage. All the quarries of Italy- 
shuddered. This noble zeal and this great expense 
were not to the taste of Madame Lermine. Honest 
women have their requirements, and sometimes 
their little bitternesses. She made to M. Lermine 
representations which the wind earned away, re- 
proached her beadle with his eternal vestry meet- 
ings and the multitude of his pious works, her 
sculptor, with his butcheries of marble, and both 
with the ridicule which they drew on themselves. 
Her anger was soon mingled with anxiety. M. 
Lermine became more and more extravagant in his 
expenditures. She perceived that his affairs were 
involved, and that he was obliged to have recourse 
to expedients. To what point may not zeal in a 
good cause lead us on ? Scrupulously exact, M. 
Lermine, nevertheless, committed an imprudence 
which might pass for an indelicacy. He owned, in 
Normandy, an estate on which Mme. Lermine held 
a first mortgage; in a moment of pressing need, he 
had his largest trees cut down, and alienated the 
forests, which were the best security his wife pos- 
sessed. Finding herself injured in her legal rights, 
Mme. Lermine carried her grievances before the tri- 
bunals, which pronounced that the alienations of M. 
Lermine imperilled his wife’s claims, and ordered 
a separation of property. This sentence was, for 
the poor man, a stroke from which he could not re- 
cover; from that day forward, he was but the shadow 
of himself. Not only did he suffer cruelly in being 
no longer able to satisfy his tastes (which had really 
become a species of mania with him), and further 
the ideas, so precious to him; but the decree of 
the court had, as it were, crushed him. He felt 
that he had fallen from his dignity, he existed 
only through the tolerance of his wife, whose ran- 
cor now showed itself without reserve. “ There 


128 


PROSPER . 


are women,” says La Bruyere, “ who can bury their 
husbands so well, that no mention is made of them 
in the world. Does he yet live ? or does he live no 
longer ? No one knows.” 

“ Before this unfortunate division of property,” 
said Prosper to Didier, “ M. Lermine could always 
make head against his wife. Between the two the 
game was about equal; each one had friends whom 
he and she arranged in line of battle. A struggle 
of principles, and of influence ! There was in their 
drawing-room what their guests called the queen's 
corner and the king's corner. The two camps 
measured each other with a look; a desertion would 
hrfve been a terrible crime, the deserter would have 
been executed at once. The King and the Queen 
counted and counted again their flock ; they re- 
warded the faithful, and worked to make recruits. 
Alas ! our friends, generally, abandon us when fort- 
une does. As soon as he was known to be ruined, 
the good man (so the friends of his wife called him) 
beheld the ranks of his champions thinning ; the 
king's corner is now a solitude.” 

Hardly had Didier entered the drawing-room of 
Mme. Lermine, when he perceived that his brother 
was held in high esteem there. The queen's corner 
showed him marked favor; every one seemed to 
believe in his genius, his future ; they all gave him 
credit. Prosper felt himself solvent; he paid them 
back in drafts on his future renown. For the rest, 
he was modest in speech, and his manners were irre- 
proachable. 

Mme. Lermine made Didier welcome. She only 
half pleased him. She still possessed some beauty, 
dignity of manner, charm of mind; but her per- 
petual posing spoiled everything. Her countenance 
betrayed the disquiet of a self-love always on the 
alert. She seemed to expect a great deal from Di- 
dier, and her eyes appeared to be begging for com- 


PROSPER. 


129 


pliments. This alone was enough to chill him, and 
not a word could he bring himself to speak. He 
aggravated his demerits by an absence of mind, 
which she could not forgive in him. He looked 
with curiosity at a man, gray-haired and dim-eyed, 
who walked to and fro with measured steps, on tip- 
toe, as if forbidden by law to make any noise. 
He might have been taken for a shade wandering 
along the banks of the Styx. From time to time 
he approached a group, hazarded a few observations, 
obtained but brief responses. Upon which he went 
off to try his fortune elsewhere, always repulsed 
with loss. From the portrait Prosper had sketched 
of him, Didier recognized M. Lermine. Touched 
with commiseration, he went straight towards him 
and entered into conversation. 

M. Lermine received him with the suspicion 
which is born of the habit of suffering and the de- 
sertion of friends. His gently ironical smile 
seemed to say, “ Beware, you are compromising your- 
self. Do you not see that I am quarantined?” 
But Didier held firm; his exquisite amenity and 
distinguished manners made an impression on the 
good man , who yielded at last to the charm. En- 
chanted at having discovered some one who ap- 
peared to consider him something, he became 
expansive, and taking Didier by the arm, drew him 
away to a corner of the room, where they could 
talk together freely. It appeared that M. Lerminfc 
knew well both Dauphiny and the Drone. This 
neighborhood was dear to him, because he had 
there recovered his health. The fountain of Saint 
May, situated a few leagues from Nyons, and whose 
virtues surpassed, in his opinion, the famous min- 
eral spring of Condillac, had saved his life. Return- 
ing from a tour in the Dauphinese Alps, he had 
arrived at Saint May, languid, his digestive powers 
enfeebled, incapable of continuing his journey. 

6 * 


130 


PROSPER. 


Hardly had he tasted the miraculous water when he 
felt his strength revive, his appetite recover; and 
at the end of four weeks he had returned to Paris 
with the stomach of his youth. His health giving 
way once more (for he liked to believe that the 
stomach was the seat of all his troubles), he pro- 
posed to return shortly to Saint May, and made 
Didier promise that he would go to see him there, 
so promptly was their acquaintance struck up. 

While his brother conversed with the good man , 
Prosper was perseveringly attentive to a beautiful 
Italian countess, with dark eyebrows. He seemed 
greatly occupied with her, and she herself appeared 
to regard him with favorable eyes. 

The two brothers went away together. “ You 
have behaved like a chivalrous knight,” said Pros- 
per. “ You have espoused the cause of the lilies 
and of adverse fortune.” 

“ I have made one person happy. I do not regret 
my evening.” 

“ And you did not care to please Madame Ler- 
mine ? ” 

“ Frankly, she does' not please me.” 

“ She is still handsome.” 

“ I can see that she has been.” 

This reply made Prosper taciturn. Presently, 
renewing the conversation, “ Who is the young 
woman to whom you talked with such an air of in- 
timacy ? ” asked Didier. 

Prosper sighed. 

“ I don’t know of whom you are speaking,” 
answered he in an abrupt tone; and there the con- 
versation ended. 

M. Lermine had taken a great fancy for Didier; 
he paid him several visits, felt his pulse, and ex- 
amined him on questions of doctrine. He saw, not 
without pain, that this charming youth went head- 
foremost into the errors of the age; but the differ- 


PROSPER. 


131 

ence in their opinions did not change the sentiments 
with which he regarded him. 

Didier, on his side, considered that if a man be 
worthy, his belief is also worth something, and M. 
Lermine appeared to him an excellent person, who 
was paying very dear for a peccadillo; cutting down 
his forests does not necessarily make a man a crimi- 
nal. With the intention of being agreeable to him, 
he went again very often to the Rue Joubert, and 
encountered, without moving an eyelid, the chilling 
reception and dark smiles of Mme. Lermine. On 
the first W ednesday of the month of March, enter- 
ing the room about eleven o’clock, he opened his 
eyes wide. A revolution had taken place. The 
king’s corner was again occupied. Around M. Ler- 
mine crowded a group of officious persons, by whom 
he was being complimented, praised, caressed. He 
himself seemed like another man; he had grown ten 
years younger, and a cubit taller; he carried his 
head high, replied with an air. of superiority to the 
deference and eager attentions of which he was the 
object. The camp of the Queen was in commotion; 
her friends consulted one another’s eyes; on every 
face could be seen curiosity, hesitation, a certain 
wavering. Mme. Lermine’s complexion was height- 
ened, she tried to put a good face on a bad matter, 
but it might be easily perceived that she was not at 
her ease, her voice rang sharply, and she moved her 
fan with a feverish hand. As soon as Didier ap- 
peared, M. Lermine pushed through the crowd and 
came to meet him with open arms; he took pains 
during the whole evening to distinguish him in the 
most flattering manner. Didier knew not what to 
think. He looked from time to time at his brother, 
who had a preoccupied and anxious air. He saw 
him turn several times to the fair Italian, who gen- 
erally received him so favorably; to-night she was 
absent and hardly seemed to notice him. Finally, 


132 


PROSPER . 


wearied out, Prosper made for the door, and beck- 
oned to his brother, who followed him. 

“ Come, now, what has happened ? ” asked the 
latter, when they had reached the foot of the stair- 
case. 

“ Learn, my dear friend,” answered Randoce, 
“ that destinies are as variable as the moon, and 
that people are very wrong to refuse to believe in 
American cousins. M. Lermine had one, devout by 
profession like himself, who had established a 
banking-house in New York. He has just died, 
leaving the good man a superb lump. There is 
some dispute about the amount. Seek first the 
Kingdom of God, and all else shall be added unto 
you. The friends have come back,” added he. 
“Sound, huntsmen! sound! We are going to 
break up the game ! ” 


CHAPTER XV. 

A week later Prosper entered his brother’s 
apartment one morning, pale as death, his face all 
upside down. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet ? 
It was some time before he uttered a word, striding 
up and down the room meanwhile, as if sunk in a 
sombre reverie ; then he threw himself into an arm- 
chair, where he remained motionless, his arms hang- 
ing listlessly, his eyes fixed. Big tears* rolled slowly 
down his cheeks. They were real tears, Didier was 
sure of that. He pressed him a long while with 
questions, without getting anything out of him ex- 
cept fragments of incoherent phrases, uttered in a 
convulsive voice, and explaining nothing. “ He was 
the most unhappy of men; after dreaming of hap- 


PROSPER . 


133 

piness and glory, he had awakened in an abyss. 
After all, what is life? What was death? The 
loading of a pistol — a trifle ! ” 

Didier felt serious alarm at the state in which he 
saw him; he took both his hands in his own, and 
implored him to open his heart to him. Prosper 
finally decided to speak, and this is the sum of what 
he related: 

He had, at Madame Lermine’s house, made the 
acquaintance of a young and pretty woman whom 
discretion forbade him to name; he merely hinted, 
in mysterious terms, that she had thick, black eye- 
brows, but Didier understood without further ex- 
planation. 

This woman with the well-shaded but most clear- 
seeing eyes had divined his genius, had interested 
herself in his future — very soon had left him noth- 
ing to ask. Prosper confessed that he was under 
the greatest obligations to her. She had extricated 
him from the claws of his creditors, and from 
Clichy. Since that time, in his necessities, he had 
had recourse to her more than once. For a year they 
had woven days of gold and silk, but lassitude had 
come. Which of them had grown cool first ? He 
suspected that she had long been seeking an oppor- 
tunity to break off when she got wind of his liaison 
with Carminette. Stormy explanations, terrible out- 
break ! Irreparable words had been pronounced. 
She had reproached him with her benefits in the 
most insulting terms. The rupture was definitive, 
and he remained with the insupportable shame of 
being under an obligation and a debt to a woman 
whom he no longer loved, and who no longer cared 
for him. Where should he find fifty thousand 
francs? This was the amount of his debt. For 
three nights he had not slept; he felt his honor 
lost. Nothing remained for him but to blow his 
brains out. 


134 


PROSPER. 


Whilst Prosper recounted his griefs, Didier was 
making within himself the reflection that to allow 
one’s self to be supported by one woman, and to 
keep another with the love-money supplied by the 
first, is not a very nice thing, nor the most noble 
role that can be played on the stage of the world. 
But Didier knew life too well not to know that 
many a fine fellow has been able to extricate him- 
self comfortably from situations as doubtful; and, 
after the rupture, has not even taken the trouble to 
wash his hands, or purge his memories. There are 
consciences which at each new experience go 
through a process of renovation. Say nothing to 
them of what has passed — they had naught to do 
with it. At least, Prosper felt remorse ; this much 
was in his favor. Didier beheld him so despairing, 
and his grief appeared so real, that he had no cour- 
age to reproach him with anything, and contented 
himself with silently looking at him. This look 
was eloquent. 

“ Why do you not say frankly,” he asked, at 
length, “ that you came to beg me to advance you 
this sum ? Don’t blow your brains out — you shall 
have your fifty thousand francs.” 

Prosper’s cheeks were suffused with a vivid blush ; 
his lips trembled. He looked like a man returning 
to life. 

• “I do not thank you,” he said, in a stifled voice. 
“ To him who lifts me out of an abyss, I do not 
promise my gratitude, but I say to him, ‘ I belong 
to you; do with me what you will.’ ” 

“ I do not ask so much of you,” replied Didier. 
“ I desire only that you limit yourself, henceforth, 
to such follies as do not dishonor you. My friend- 
ship forms the sincere wish that in future your life 
may be worthy of your talent.” 

“You cannot say anything to me,” he answered, 
“ that I have not said a thousand times to myself. 


PROSPER. 


135 


But these fifty thousand francs — how shall I ever 
repay them to you ? ” 

“You shall reimburse me, if possible, with the 
proceeds of your copyrights.” 

“Thanks ! ” cried Prosper. “ You believe in me 
and in my future. You are right. One day you 
shall be proud of having believed.” 

“ And of having added works to faith,” said Di- 
dier, smiling. 

But Prosper did not smile. He began to demon- 
strate, with vehement eloquence, that the Son of 
Faust would be exalted to the skies, would fill the 
theatrical treasury; that the public was weary of 
fairy pieces, of machinery, of humbug and dodges, 
and that, in the present state of things, a great lit- 
erary success could not fail to be a pecuniary suc- 
cess also. Glory and gold, gold and glory — every- 
thing would come at once. 

“ But I have something else to tell you,” added 
he. “You have proposed to me to go and pass 
some time with you, and work. I accept, my dear 
fellow. I wish to leave this hateful Paris, for a 
time. Who knows whether some unlucky return 
of passion — perhaps I am not so entirely cured as 
I imagine. Let us go away, my friend. You shall 
lodge me where you choose — anything will suit me, 
even an attic. I deserve nothing better. You 
shall put me on dry bread, if you like. I will work 
like a negro, like a galley-slave; I will sweat blood 
and water to pay off my debt, to Shake off my ser- 
vitude. Six months of furious work, and The Son 
of Faust will, under your auspices, make his glo- 
rious entrance into the world ! ” 

He uttered all this in a tone of conviction (truth 
alone possesses this accent),' then snatching up a 
sheet of paper, he wrote upon it, with the facility 
inspired by long practice, “ I, Prosper Ilandoce, 
acknowledge the receipt of fifty thousand francs 


PROSPER. 


136 

from M. Didier de Peyrols, which sum I pledge 
myself to repay him by degrees on my copyrights 
dating from the first representation of The Son of 
Faust.” 

“What a kite to fly!” thought Didier, as he 
pocketed the paper. “ And Carminette ? ” said he 
all at once. 

Prosper bent his head, and uttered a sigh like the 
roar of a lion in the desert. He rose, took three or 
four turns through the room, speaking in sup- 
pressed tones, and as though a prey to the most vi- 
olent inward conflict. Stopping before Didier, 
“ I shall have the strength to leave her,” said he. 
“ God only knows, though, how much it costs me.” 

“ And how much she costs you,” added Didier. 

“ But do not leave me time to think it over,” 
continued he. “ When shall we go ? ” 

“ In one week, if you will.” 

“A week! Give me only to-morrow to set my 
affairs in order. Day after to-morrow we shall be 
on our way. Adieu ; you save my life. Y ou are not 
a friend only, you are a brother.” 

At this word Didier could not repress a start. 
“ Ah! ” thought he, “let us cut off half of that, if 
you please. The rest is enough for my happi- 
ness.” 

He wrote at once to M. Patru. “ A great victory, 
my dear Notary. To tell you the truth, some mat- 
ters have just come to my knowledge — but there is 
mercy for every sin. On my. invitation, my half- 
brother has decided to leave Paris, where he has 
been leading a life not over edifying. He is com- 
ing to bury himself at the Guard, and work furi- 
ously for six months. This is at least something 
gained. As you see, I have lost neither my time 
nor my trouble. Please give orders to Marion to 
prepare in haste what my father used to call the 
‘ strangers’ apartment,’ that is to say, the little 


PROSPER. 


137 

crimson saloon on the first story with the adjoining 
rooms. It is there that I shall lodge my guest. 
You must have the large vases, and the two stat- 
uettes in bronze, which ornament the chimney- 
pieces of my study, carried into this parlor. The 
portrait of my father must also be taken away from 
the large drawing-room. Have an eye to everything 
yourself, I beg you, so that all may be in order 
when I arrive. In three days I shall have the 
pleasure of embracing you, and presenting Randoce 
to you. This lion of Barbary roars, but does not 
bite.” 

His letter written and sealed, he put it into the 
post himself, after which he went to his bankers, 
and from there made one spring to M. Lermine’s 
house, where the latter recalled to him his promise 
of going to see him at Saint May. They fixed 
upon a place of meeting at the fountain; then he 
went back for his fifty thousand francs, and took 
them himself to his brother, who threw his arms 
around him and held him for some time in a close 
embrace. 

Next day Didier received a note in which Pros- 
per begged him urgently to come that evening 
to his apartment and sup with Carminette. He had 
not yet had courage to take it upon himself to an- 
nounce to the star his heroic resolution. He fore- 
saw a scene of emotion, tears, despair. He wished 
Didier to be there, to second him and strengthen his 
courage, should it give way. Meanwhile he was 
going to Y ersailles, where he had an old gambling 
debt to settle with an officer, a friend of his. He 
did not wish to leave anything behind him, but to 
begin entirely anew. 

As ten o’clock struck, Didier entered his brother’s 
apartment, and found himself face to face with 
Carminette alone. She had got herself up in full 
array; her wild and dishevelled hair was adorned 


PROSPER. 


133 

with bows of red velvet, which enlivened her com- 
plexion. Never had her strange and piquante ugli- 
ness been so well set off, an ugliness so strange as 
almost to put beauty in the shade. The table was 
set for three persons ; a terrine of truffled partridges 
looked its best on a very clean table-cloth; at the 
four corners of the table were four bottles ready to 
be uncorked. Prosper had evidently taken pains to 
have everything in style for his farewell supper. 
Carminette was occupied in taking out oysters from 
a basket, and opening them with the dexterity of a 
fishwoman. A ring at the bell — she ran to the 
door and came back with a telegram in her hand. 

Didier opened the envelope; Prosper sent word 
that he had not -yet found his man, that he should be 
obliged to pass the night at Versailles, and would 
return early the next morning. 

Carminette made a grimace, and, with an angry 
gesture, threw the dispatch into the fire, but im- 
mediately recovering her good humor : 

“Upon my word, Knight of the Fillip,” said she 
to Didier, making play with her eyes, “ I hope we 
shall only put on half-mourning. I think we had 
better sup without this villanous liar, and punish 
him by having a lark to-night.” 

She seemed only too much disposed that way. 
Didier, decidedly vexed, knew not what to do. 
Half -willingly, half-forcibly, she made him sit down 
to supper. She was so whimsical, that with the aid 
of a bottle of excellent Pomard, he felt at last 
quite gay. While eating with good appetite, she 
showed him many coquettish attentions, and put 
saucy questions to him, which she answered herself. 
For one moment she grew serious, for the purpose 
of jeering at Prosper — calling him a pedant and a 
miser; complaining that he led her a miserable life, 
kept her short of money, shut her up at home, al- 
lowed her to wear ragged dresses. Patience ! She 


PROSPER. 


139 

was only waiting an opportunity for leaving 
him. 

“ Come,” said Didier to himself, “ the farewell 
hour will not cause so many tears to flow as I had 
feared.” 

The repast over, she threw off all reserve, began 
to caper and pirouette like a mad creature, mingling 
together all the airs in her repertory, mimicking all 
sorts of rdles with astonishing truth, and interrupt- 
ing herself with vain appeals to Didier to come 
and dance a pas de deux with her. Then, spring- 
ing aside into Prosper’s room, she brought out her 
mantilla, and putting it over her head and shoul- 
ders, in the Spanish fashion, began to sing a bolero, 
in such a manner as to prove to the most exacting 
judge, that she knew how to sing, when she liked 
to do so, and making roulades like a nightingale. 
After which, she began to whirl around Didier, 
with kindling eyes aimed straight at him, and close 
to him. Being in a good school for such accom- 
plishments, her brain was stuffed full of verses. 
She exclaimed, 

“ Behold , then , this mortal , who, braving my spite , 

Has justly been called the unterrified knight." 

Didier felt his head beginning to turn. The 
glances of this imp in petticoats began to heat his 
blood; his breath came quick and short; he hardly 
knew where he was. At a moment when Carmi- 
nette, her hand on her hip, was looking him straight 
in the eye, he turned away his head, and saw the 
envelope of the telegram, which still lay on the 
chimney-piece. This envelope made him think of 
Prosper, of his rather singular journey to Versailles, 
of his strange despatch; and, all at once, a gleam 
of light crossed his mind. For one moment he 
remained plunged in abstraction; then drew sud- 
denly from his pocket a handful of gold pieces, 


140 


PROSPER . 


rose, approached the hook-case, surveyed a moment 
the rows of books, and chose a volume (it was The 
Ruins of Volney) and, sitting down again, he said 
to Carminette, “ Enough of your gambols, my dear 
child. Your knight is somewhat weary. Let us 
have, I beg you, a little reading. Here is a book 
which cannot fail to interest you-” 

Carminette opened her eyes wide. Bursting out 
into a laugh, she seized the volume, threw it into 
the air, caught it on the end of her foot, and sent 
it to the extremity of the next room, the door of 
which stood open. Didier counted the gold pieces. 
There were fourteen of them — he made a little pile 
of these. 

“ If Carminette will be good,” said he, “ and read 
to me, here are some nice sugar-plums, which possess 
the secret of making ragged dresses whole again.” 

Carminette became serious. She crossed her 
arms on her breast, and began to walk up and down 
the room; and each time she passed Didier, she 
cast on him a cold and contemptuous look. She 
was exasperated; her hands were itching; with all 
her heart she would have liked to box the ears of 
this indifferent gentleman. But then, too, she 
looked at the sugar-plums, and seemed to hear the 
rustling of a silk gown. After long hesitation she 
came to a decision, went back to the bedroom, 
picked up the volume, and, sitting down in an arm- 
chair in such a way as to turn her back upon her 
insensible cavalier, she began to read, in a low 
voice, like the bleating of a sheep. Leaning on 
the table, Didier listened to her calmly, grave as a 
Spanish grandee. 

It had just struck midnight, when suddenly the 
door opened with a crash. W rapped in his big cloak, 
Prosper appeared on the threshold, with the air of 
a police officer making a descent upon a house of 
bad character. Carminette had just reached this 


PROSPER. 


141 

sentence: “The palaces of kings have become the 
dens of wild beasts; the flocks herd together on the 
threshold of temples, and vile reptiles inhabit the 
sanctuary of the gods. How has so much glory 
been eclipsed?” 

Prosper looked attentively at Carminette, then at 
Didier; his fierce expression gave way to one of pro- 
found astonishment; he went towards the door of 
the inner room, cast a rapid glance within, then ap- 
proached the young girl, took the book from her 
hands, and burst into shouts of laughter. Then he 
advanced towards his brother, but he, with one look, 
stopped him, and said, in a tone of freezing irony : 

“Truly, Carminette has a very happy turn for 
reading. This incomparable girl has many strings 
to her bow, but you are a man of ability, and I see 
that on occasions you know how to utilize every one 
of her merits.” And having said this, he rose and 
left the room without Prosper’s saying or doing 
anything to detain him. 

That night Didier did not go to bed. Until near 
daylight he walked to and fro in his room; he was 
shocked, overwhelmed, and bitterly asked himself if 
it was indeed true that his half-brother could be a 
scoundrel. For the first time in his life he felt the 
blush of anger on his forehead. When he had be- 
come a little more calm, he held council with him- 
self. After long deliberation, he concluded that the 
best thing he could do would be to wait; that there 
was every reason to suppose Prosper would not be 
long in appearing before him to try to justify him- 
self or to palliate his fault; that he must see him; 
and that he would regulate his own conduct by the 
attitude and language of the culprit. Towards the 
middle of the morning Baptiste handed him a note 
thus worded : 

“My dear friend, — I cannot go with you. Do 
not judge me too severely. You have only to pict- 


142 


PROSPER. 


ure to yourself with what power passion sways a 
heart not made of bronze. A man fancies himself 
strong, but one smile, one tear is enough to subdue 
the highest courage. I ought not to have seen this 
bewitching girl again, now I feel that I cannot live 
without her. To her I owe my finest verses, which 
are not, however, those I composed for her. Explain 
this to me: she is not poetry to me, but she repre- 
sents for me contempt for all that is prosaic and 
conventional, and this contempt is necessary to my 
life. To sum up everything, I love her, I love her; 
and I cannot go away. Then, too, she is just about 
to make her debut. Can I leave her at so critical a 
moment? I long to pay my debt to you. Car- 
minette will help me, and I shall not wait until it 
falls due. Adieu, my good friend. Be indulgent. 
You are a poet, after your own fashion, and poets 
understand everything; you may be sure that what- 
ever I do, one-half of myself sits in judgment on 
the other half. Why are we made up of shreds and 
patches ? One day, perhaps, I shall know truly 
what I am ; when once I find myself, I swear to you, 
I will never let myself go again.” 

As soon as he had read this letter, Didier took his 
hat and ran to his brother’s house. He found the 
door closed. The porter told him that M. Randoce 
had gone away to the country, in the early morning, 
and. that he intended to stay there for some weeks. 
Didier went home once more, gave Baptiste orders 
to pack his trunks and pay his bills. At eight 
o’clock in the evening he got into the train, and set 
out on his journey southwards, indignant at having 
for a brother a man without honor, and perhaps a 
scoundrel, furious at having been duped, cursing his 
over-easy disposition, which, aided by his laziness, 
had made him neglect every precaution, and (when 
he had time to think of it) overwhelmed at the 
idea of being soon obliged to render an account of 


PROSPER. 


143 

his failure to the sardonical M. Patm. It may well 
be believed that he would have given a great deal 
to learn at his arrival that the worthy man was kept 
in bed by a catarrhal fever. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Didier could not escape the interrogatory which 
he so much dreaded. M. Patru was the first man 
to receive him on his arrival. The notary had gone 
up to the Guard to make sure that Marion had 
faithfully carried out the directions of her master, 
and also that the little crimson saloon was prepared 
for the reception of the great man. It went much 
against the grain with him, to have the bronzes and 
vases which usually adorned Didier’s study moved 
into that room. This moving seemed to him an 
evil augury. Pie was a little afraid of the generous 
disposition of Lord Hamlet, and began to fear that 
he might commit excesses of liberality which would 
shock his judicial sense, and the great legal princi- 
ple, that a child born in adultery has a right to a 
support, and nothing more. At the moment that 
Didier appeared, he was walking in the garden, 
saying to himself, “ If this rhymer makes an apos- 
tle of himself, and succeeds in gaining the confi- 
dence of his brother, my man is just the fellow to 
strip himself of all he possesses for his sake. Fort- 
unately, I am here, and I shall take too good care 
for that.” 

He was astonished at seeing Didier arrive alone. 
“Well, and your lft>n?” he cried. 

“My lion has been detained in Paris, by an 
unforeseen accident,” said Didier, in a dry tone. 


144 


PROSPER. 


“ Oh, oh ! ” thought M. Patru, “ something has 
surely gone wrong here.” Pie put a few more ques- 
tions, and received only evasive replies. He was 
too curious and too persistent to give up the game 
so easily; he invited himself without ceremony to 
dinner, returning to the charge at the dessert. 
Didier had to surrender. However, he took good 
care not to tell everything — touched on Carminette 
very slightly, and passed carefully by the journey 
to Versailles, the telegram, and the reading of Vol- 
ney. The notary was generous enough to make 
no observations, but he said within himself that 
Didier had just been finding out a good deal about 
the world, and that filling balloons is a perilous 
business. But he did not exclaim, as people do 
usually, “What did I tell you? did I not warn 
you ? ” and Didier was grateful to him for it. 

To make a diversion in the conversation, which 
had little attraction for him, Didier asked for news 
of his cousin. M. Patru shook his head. 

“ Ah ! ” he answered, “ the poor woman does not 
walk on roses. Madame Brehanne becomes every 
day harder to manage. She is discontented with 
everything, and mortally bored. There is nothing 
but complaining, bitterness, and fault-finding. 
Madame d’Azado has left no stone unturned to 
find amusement for her. She has given her a gen- 
tle and pretty horse to ride, and a groom, who can 
also be her tiger. She sent to Paris for a maid who 
has fairy fingers, and who arranges her hair and 
dresses her according to all the rules of the Jour- 
nal des Modes. She has beaten the bush to get all 
the whist-players in the country, and almost every 
evening there is a little game at the Three Plane 
Trees. Madame Brehanne has remained insensible 
to all these kind attentions — she always finds some- 
thing to blame, and weeps for ennui. She had 
brought from Lima, with her other baggage, a 


PROSPER. 


145 


South American parrot, which died on the passage. 
As she could not be consoled for this irreparable 
loss, Madame d’Azado succeeded, not without 
trouble, in procuring her another. A foolish bird, 
I assure you, which seems to be always in an ill- 
humor, always screaming and shrieking. Madame 
Brehanne had not owned the bird ten days, when 
she taught it to say, ‘ Oh, how bored I am ! ’ Noth- 
ing is heard throughout the house but this cry. 
I have almost got into a quarrel with this silly 
woman. She has beset me with eternal stories of 
inheritance ; you would think she has been the vic- 
tim of a fraud, (that is her expression), and that 
her daughter benefits by it, at her expense. I 
made her tell all her affairs to me, and have proved, 
as clear as daylight, that she has received more than 
her due. She will never forgive me for this proof. 
She ought, though, to thank me for the incredible 
pains I am taking to get her a husband. That is a 
little service I should like to render her. Let some 
one else take charge of her ! But I lose my labor. 
‘ She is charming,’ I said the other day to a wid- 
ower, who seems to me impatient for a new partner. 

“‘Yes, certainly, but I am afraid of her eyes. 
Their exj)ression tells you that she awaits, as a 
Messiah, some liberator to break her chains.’ 

“ ‘ Of course! you shall be her liberator.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, yes,’ he answered, scratching his ear, ‘ but 
then, he who is to deliver her from the liberator ! 
She is keeping him in reserve.’ 

“The worthy man is quite right, by Jove! In 
the eyes of the fair Peruvian may be perceived in- 
finite perspectives of deliverance; there are side- 
scenes and Messiahs as far as you can see. He 
laughs well who laughs last. Both you and your 
cousin,” added M. Patru, “ are equally unfortunate 
in your efforts on wild animals. It remains to be 
7 


146 


PROSPER. 


seen which is the most difficult, to educate a moth- 
er, or to tame a brother.” 

Two days after his arrival, Didier went to the 
Three Plane Trees. He was received by Madame 
Br6hanne, who, half reclining on a sofa, was talk- 
ing with her parrot. She bounded with joy at 
perceiving him, but her delight was of short dura- 
tion. He was so cold to her, listened with so absent 
an air to her complaints, replied to all her questions 
by a yes or no so dry that she was quite astonished. 
After trying in vain to melt his icy demeanor, she 
lost patience, looked crossly at him, decided that 
her nephew was a fool in every way, and struck 
him from the list of her friendships. The parrot 
came in for what had been his share. 

At the very instant that this grave event was ac- 
complished, Lucile entered. She could not help 
blushing. On his side, Didier showed some embar- 
rassment. He approached her, and offered her his 
hand, saying, 

“ Friends, as we used to be.” 

She took it, and answered, “Yes, with the help of 
God.” 

Madame Brkhanne was astonished at this little 
ceremony. She interrupted the conversation several 
times by her sighs and yawns, then she rang and 
ordered her carriage. When it was ready, she told 
them to unharness, for it was going to rain ; then, 
getting up, she said she would go out on foot. As 
no one made any objection, she sat down again, and 
an instant afterward rang once more, ordered her 
mare to be saddled, and went to dress herself, 
carrying with her the parrot, which never stopped 
crying, “ Oh, how bored I am ! ” 

Didier had a long talk with his cousin. He found 
her changed; there was still the same charm, but 
with it mingled something of melancholy. There 
was in her a depth of sadness, which she tried to 


PROSPER. 


14 7 


conceal, and which rendered her beauty more inter- 
esting. At least, Didier felt for her a sympathy, 
which she had not before inspired in him. Perhaps 
he himself had become less indifferent, less disdain- 
ful, had got over somewhat of his contemplative 
pride. For the first time in his life, he had laid 
aside his haughty listlessness, he had willed some- 
thing, and his will had been broken against an 
obstacle; nothing humanizes one so much as a de- 
feat. The man who has measured himself, be it for 
a day only, with the difficulties of life, is less intol- 
erant than the dreamer, who looks at everything 
from starry heights; his demands are less peremp- 
tory, he is more disposed to content himself with 
half successes, to estimate the force of circum- 
stances, and to forgive men for not being heroes, 
women for not being sylphs. In his journey to 
Germany, Didier had made acquaintance with Ham- 
let ; his late stay in Paris had been more profitable 
to him still. There he had acquired a knowledge, 
hitherto wanting to him, the knowledge of life, and 
the sentiment of that interest which attaches itself 
to everything that has life, even that which lives ill. 
If, after reflection, he had lent an ear to the slang 
refrains of Carminette, why be astonished, if, at this 
moment, he took pleasure in putting questions to his 
cousin ? He would have liked to have her tell him all 
about her troubles ; he even opened the way for such 
a relation; perhaps in return he might then tell her 
of his own disheartening failure. One evening, at 
Paris, he had reddened with anger; at the Three 
Plane Trees , for the first time, he felt himself in- 
clining to expansion. 

If Lucile had responded to this, the exchange of 
confidence would have brought about a cordial, 
mutual understanding, a fine friendly relation. 
Lucile perceived that some change for which she 
could not account had taken place in him; she found 


148 


PROSPER. 


his manners more open, his tone more affectionate, 
more cordiality in his accent, but she did not con- 
fide her own troubles to him, spoke of herself as 
little as possible, kept always on her guard. He had 
taught her to distrust herself. Had he any right to 
complain ? 

In the course of the week, he returned several 
times to the Three Plane Trees ; he even passed an 
evening there, although the persons he met were 
not at all to his taste; and in the hope of making 
himself agreeable to his cousin, he played whist 
with a good-humored air. God only knows, how- 
ever, how much he cared about the game ! Mme. 
d’Azado seemed pleased that he was amusing 
himself, but she did not think of thanking him for 
his self-devotion, which cooled his noble zeal. 

In his hours of solitude, Didier often thought of 
his brother, and the strong irritation which he had 
at first felt against him, began, day by day, to abate. 
To use a vulgar expression, he soon began to mix 
water with his wine. I do not know whether he 
had read Spinoza, but he had a Spinozian turn of 
mind and disposition; he was inclined to believe 
that everything is Nature, that moral liberty is an 
illusion, that we can neither change ourselves, nor 
the things around us, that all character is the result 
of certain circumstances, of a certain education, of 
a certain dominant impression, that it is as unrea- 
sonable to be angry with a rogue, as with a horse 
that has the lampas or a spavin. After all, if Pros- 
per was wanting in honor, was not this the fault of 
his natural father, who had abandoned him, and of 
his adopted father, who had educated him too 
much? There was something of Pochon ii> him; 
pear-trees bring forth peaches, and Pochons, Han- 
doces. This is the law of Nature. 

The portrait of M. de Peyrols had been replaced 
on its panel, near the chimney-piece of the draw- 


PROSPER. 


1 49 

ing-room. Every time Didier looked at it (which 
happened often) he thought of the fierce and 
bitter reproaches his father had addressed to him- 
self on his death-bed, and how it seemed to him as 
if, in inheriting his possessions, he had succeeded 
also to his conscience and his faults. He accused 
himself of having acquitted too cheaply the claims 
on the paternal inheritance. The portrait was 
strikingly like the expression of the eye speaking; 
this expression disturbed Didier. Though little of 
a Catholic, he yet felt as though the soul which had 
formerly animated these eyes, was retained by its 
remorse in a sort of dark purgatory, and that it de- 
pended on him* to release it. He had become too 
soon disgusted, or, rather, he had felt too much an- 
ger at being duped ; he ought firmly to have awaited 
the return of his brother, interrogated him over- 
whelmed him, made him shrink into himself. His 
letter proved that he was capable of judging him- 
self ; by addressing his conscience, there was, per- 
haps, some chance of speaking to something; the 
case was not desperate; he is a bad physician who 
abandons his patient before he hears the death rat- 
tle, and who runs off without giving warning. 

What contributed also to calm Didier’s resentment 
was the rancor which the implacable Notary nour- 
ished against the lover of Carminette. The fifty t 
thousand francs lay heavy on M. Patru’s heart; he 
thought over and over again of all the good uses to 
which this sum might have been put, he was en- 
raged to think that it had been wasted in follies or 
dissipated at one stroke in some low gambling house. 
These fifty thousand francs stirred his bile; he could 
not get over them. If, hitherto, he had pleaded the 
cause 'of Randoce, it was to relieve his conscience. 
As to the rest, he had judged it fitting that Didier, 
in order to get a little stirring up, should set out to 
discover his brother, and assure himself that he was 


PROSPER. 


150- 

not in want, but, it being proved that the poet was 
an uncleanable animal, Didier’s best way was to 
forget him entirely; a man may be a dupe once; but 
twice — that is sheer immorality ! 

To this must be added, that M. Patru had strong 
prejudices against men of letters. I wish to think 
that these were well founded, but to all the good 
reasons which he alleged was joined one wholly 
personal, which he took good care not to avow. 
Once on a time, having manufactured an epithala- 
mium of which he was very proud, M. Patru had 
the happy inspiration to send it to a small news- 
paper, which had published it, but with a commen- 
tary in which the author was roughly handled. His 
ears seemed burning still, when he thought of it. 

“ I had judged your brother by the ticket on the 
bag,” he used to say to Didier. “ As soon as I 
learned that he scribbled, I knew what to expect. 
A sad race, your literary people ! ” 

“ I call that a very summary judgment,” answered 
Didier. 

“ My dear fellow, a man who respects himself 
only hatches verses in his moments of leisure.” 

“ I had supposed that a lifetime was not too long 
for learning how to make good verse3.” 

“ But don’t you see that literature has become a 
trade ? ” 

“ I can’t see how literary men can dispense with 
the means of living.” 

“ F ormerly, poetry had a lyre for its sign ; now, 
it has a money-bag.” 

“ At all times of the world, poets have felt the 
need of eating and drinking. Read Pindar — the 
money question comes up very often in his Odes. 
1 Poverty is an intolerable evil; gold is the most 
precious thing that men can possess.’ And then 
he holds his hand out. In former times, the pow- 
erful of this world pensioned poets, who paid them 


PROSPER. 


151 

back in incense. The great Corneille compared a 
Montmoron to the Emperor Augustus, and all for 
money. Do you regret that day, those dedications, 
and genuflexions ? The writers of the present 
day try to keep on their feet and get their dinner 
by their pen. The priest must live by the altar. 
I regret only that most of them are so short of 
specie, and have such trouble in making both ends 
meet.” 

“ Pity them ! A race of vermin, I tell you. 
Among these poor devils, how many do you reckon 
who are honest men, loyal debtors, sure friends ? 
The grandfather of all this Bohemia — your famous 
Jean Jacques — ” 

“ Ah, yes, he put his children into the hospital. 
If it was necessary, we might find porters who have 
done the same thing, but who confess it in less 
grand style. Monsieur Patru, are all notaries vir- 
tuous ? ” 

“So ! Well, yes or no, is your brother a scoun- 
drel ? ” 

“ Montaigne would say, * Who knows ? ’ and 
Rabelais, ‘ Perhaps ! ’ ” 

“ Now there is a doubt, my boy, which has cost 
you fifty thousand francs.” 

“ I wish I might spend two hundred thousand, to 
find out that he is an honest man ! ” 

M. Patru finished by exclaiming, “ You are too 
simple, my dear balloon-puffer ! ” To which Di- 
dier answered, laughing, “ You are too rancorous, 
Mr. Composer of Epithalamiums ! ” 

And thus were the roles interchanged. It was 
M. Patru who, for fear of worse, preached inaction 
to Didier. As he could not do better, Didier re- 
signed himself to it, but not without regret. For 
the rest, he gradually resumed his former habits. 
With the exception of a few visits to the Three 
Plane Trees , and those which M. Patru paid him, 


152 


PROSPER. 


he saw hardly any one. Every morning he gave 
some hours to his affairs, and, as the spring brought 
back his pedestrian humor, he spent the rest of the 
day in long walks. The rocks and pines of Garde 
Grosse , his old and faithful friends, held to him the 
same language as formerly; they preached to him 
that supreme indifference, that quiet irony, which 
is the very soul of nature. The woods give in- 
struction, and the wisdom which they teach con- 
sists in letting one’s self live, and see the hours and 
things pass by. This wisdom was well known to 
Didier; he drank it in more freely than ever, while 
breathing the air of the mountain, and the perfume 
of the resinous pine. He had put restraint on his 
native disposition; now it was coming back again. 
His soul readjusted itself in its habits, and the im- 
pressions which had, for a time, shaken him from 
his torpor, melted away. 

But, towards the close of the month of May, a 
ring at the bell roused him suddenly. He received 
a letter, which gave him much to think about. M. 
Lermine informed him that he had been for a short 
time in Dauphiny; he excused himself for having 
passed through Nyons without coming to see him; 
the state of his health, which had suddenly become 
worse, had obliged him to hasten directly to the 
remedy, and he had made but one step from Paris 
to the fountain of Saint May. In the four or five 
days following his arrival, the marvellous water had 
acted upon him ; he felt himself another man. He 
recalled Didier’s promise to him, begged him ur- 
gently to come and pass a week or two at Saint 
May. Besides his impatience to see him, and to 
break a few lances with him, he wished to obtain 
from him some information with regard to a friend 
of his, M. Prosper Randoce; on this information 
depended a decision which he was about to take. 
At these last words Didier shuddered. His brother 


PROSPER. 


153 

suddenly started up in life before him. What was 
there between M. Lermine and Prosper ? He re- 
membered the vehement tone in which the latter 
had cried : “Strike up, huntsmen! they are going 
to break up the game ! ” 

Had he, enticed by the inviting spectacle, taken 
it into his head to have his share of the booty, to 
catch some of the spoils ? Had he not been play- 
ing off on the good man some trick of his trade ? 
Didier longed to get at the bottom of all this. 
Adieu to the woods and their sermons ! While he 
was reading this letter, his father’s portrait seemed 
staring at him, and the blood boiled in his veins. 
He resolved to set out the next day, and directed 
Marion to prepare his valise. The good woman re- 
monstrated. 

“ What, sir, are you going away again ? Is the 
world upside down ? What is going on ? What is 
asked of us ? What gnat has stung you ? ” 

He answered her with a line from Shakespeare. 
“My good Marion,” he said, tapping her on the 
cheek, “let the world go round. We shall never 
be younger than now.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The next morning, at about ten o’clock, Didier 
set out, mounted on a nag which he had hired at the 
Hotel de Louvre , and carrying his portmanteau 
strapped behind him. 

The village of Saint May is situated about eight 
leagues beyond Xyons, on the road from Orange to 
Gap. This road, which connects the basin of the 
Rhone with the high lands of Dauphiny, rises by an 
imperceptible slope, following the course of the 
7 * 


154 


PROSPER. 


Aygues , whose valley is by turns shut in between 
high walls of rock and expanded into circles at the 
entrance of the defiles which open out from it. 

The weather w T as most delightful, and Didier 
thought he should arrive at the stroke of noon. 
He spurred his horse to a gallop ; but soon found 
out that this gait w^as one unfamiliar to the nag, who 
stumbled and tripped incessantly. At last he left 
the reins loose on his neck, and allowed him to take 
his own pace, which proved to be a walk. Twelve 
o’clock struck, and he had not yet accomplished half 
his journey. The sun was scorching. He resolved 
to push on as far as the village of Sahune, the 
roofs of which he could perceive in the distance, on 
the other side of the Aygues, and to wait there till 
the heat of the day had passed. Just as he was 
about to cross the bridge, he perceived at the first 
turning of the road, within two gunshots, a little 
inn, of rather miserable appearance, but which 
seemed good enough for the halt he proposed to 
make. He rode straight to this tavern, and, alight- 
ing, begged the hostess to prepare breakfast for 
him, and to have his beast fed. While she was ar- 
ranging for him an omelette with tomatoes, and a 
fricasseed chicken, Didier, sitting astride on a halting 
chair, his elbows supported on its back, began to 
read over once more M. Lermine’s letter. He was 
embarrassed beforehand as to what information he 
should give regarding his brother. He did not wish 
either to accuse him or to become responsible for 
him; he determined, as the urgency of the case de- 
manded, to copy the prudent silence of Conrart. 

Suddenly, in the midst of his reflection, he heard 
the sound of a horse’s feet, trotting on the high- 
road. The man who rode this horse stopped before 
the door of the inn, and called for the landlady in 
a sonorous voice, whose accents made Didier jump 
from his chair. The hostess went out to the horse- 


PROSPER. 


155 

man; at the reply which she made to his questions, 
he sprang from his horse, rushed to the kitchen and 
opened abruptly the door of the room where our 
hero was. Didier stood petrified with, astonish- 
ment, as if he saw an apparition. The man that 
presented himself before his eyes was Prosper 
Randoce, who, instantly recognizing his Maecenas, 
rushed towards him, with open arms, exclaiming, in 
a loud voice : 

“ Yes, finding again a companion so true , 

My fortune will put on a face that is new ; 

And already her anger appears to be o'er, 

Since now she has deigned to unite us once more. 

To think that a tavern, which swells must despise , 

Should bring Pylades first to Orestes's eyes ! 

That, when I had lost him for three months, 1 ids. 

He should turn up again in a pot-house like this ! ” 

Thus speaking, he still held his arms open, but 
as Didier stood like a statue, he was obliged to take 
back his intended embrace. 

“Well, what is the matter with you?” he re- 
sumed. “ Not a word, not a movement. Does as- 
tonishment paralyze your tongue and your arms ? 
Is this adventure so strange ? I come post-haste to 
see you. I stop at the Hotel de Louvre , inquire 
after you. 1 He has just started for Saint May.’ 
Quick, a horse ! I mount the animal, give him 
both spurs, and here I am! Come to my arms, my 
preserver! come to my arms! ” 

Still mute, Didier fixed on him a sombre and 
frowning look. Prosper finally conceived an idea 
that his astonishment might possibly be complicated 
with indignation. He recoiled a step, and, leaning 
against the wall, “Nonsense ! let us come to an 
understanding ! You look at me as though you 
would eat me up. Are you then so angry with me ? 
Yes; I have indeed a great weakness with which 
to reproach myself. Come, I have paid dearly for 


PROSPER. 


156 

it! Carminette has made her debut. A tremendous 
success — carried everything before her. The day 
but one after that, some fellow whipped her away 
from me. The ungrateful creature J What afflicts 
me most, is, that she will surely be spoiled. She is 
lost to art. I had given her style, the sentiment of 
the ideal ; they will make of her a clap-trap singer. 
On this occasion, my dear friend, I behaved like 
an ancient Roman. ' A pretty little gentleman 
was deputed to come and see me, and with soft 
speech to stroke me down and propose to pay me 
off. I threw the little dandy broker, the money, 
the whole concern, downstairs ; I don’t know what 
became of the pieces. Are you not moved at this 
recital of my misfortunes ? Why make such big 
eyes at me ? Are you regretting your fifty thou- 
sand francs ? I will pay you back every penny of 
them, never fear ; but you must have a little pa- 
tience! The handsomest of girls can but give what 
she has.” 

At last Didier unclosed his lips. “ Can you not 
at least tell me,” asked he, “ in what gambling den 
you lost the money ? ” 

“ A gambling house! ” exclaimed Prosper, rolling 
his eyes. “ You think I have gambled the money 
away! I told you what I meant to do with it. 
Indeed you may believe — ” 

“ I believe everything,” interrupted Didier, in a 
dry tone. He had not foreseen the effect his reply 
was going to produce. He had never seen his 
brother in his tempests of rage. The spectacle was 
an interesting one. Prosper began by stammering 
a few words, but his voice failing him, he turned as 
pale as if a fish-bone had stuck in his throat, and 
began to tremble in every limb; then suddenly turn- 
ing round he let fly into the wall two formidable 
blows which shook the whole house, then he made 
a prodigious bound, seized a chair, broke it into a 


PROSPER. 


15 7 


thousand pieces ; after which, spying on the dresser 
a pile of plates, he seized it in both hands, raised it 
above his head, hurled it to the floor, and then 
trampled furiously on the fragments. The hostess, 
hearing these sounds, ran in, followed by the land- 
lord; but the sight of the madman, who, with wild 
aspect and eyes flashing fire, was stamping and 
rushing about like one possessed by a fiend, intimi- 
dated them, and they dared not approach. Didier 
got up, and succeeded, not without trouble, in seiz- 
ing both his wrists and making him stop. 

“ Leave me alone,” vociferated Prosper. “ Every- 
thing is finished between us. I will never forgive 
you for your stupid, insulting suspicion. I have 
the receipt; you shall not see it. There it is! 
Will you be so indiscreet as to look at the signa- 
ture ? ” 

Didier, to whom this scene was most painful, 
tried only to put an end to it. He declared that 
he did not wish to see the receipt, made Prosper 
shut up his pocket-book again, and swore that he 
trusted in his word. He had begun badly; he had 
just uttered a rash judgment; and this disposed 
him to banish all his other suspicions. He who 
has rushed on too far is obliged to draw back too 
far also. There remained, however, one doubt in 
his mind which he would much have liked to clear 
up. How could Prosper explain the adventure of 
the telegram ? Didier was on the point of ques- 
tioning him on the subject, but he judged it more 
prudent to delay his inquiries. It was better to 
wait until they should be in the open country with 
no more plates at hand for Prosper. He forced 
him to sit down, consoled the hostess by assuring 
her that her crockery should be paid for, and bade 
her bring the omelette and another plate. Prosper, 
to oblige Didier, sat down at table; but, contrary 
to his usual habit, he only nibbled a little ; he was 


PROSPER. 


I 5 8 

sombre, taciturn, looked with a reproachful air at 
his brother, and uttered deep sighs. 

However, when he had swallowed some glasses 
of generous wine of a good brand, his brow cleared 
a little, and he resumed by degrees his calm de- 
meanor, and usual good-humor. 

“ Truly, you take me by surprise,” he said at 
last, as he drew back from the table and rocked 
his chair to and fro. “ I had flattered myself that 
I knew you; but I am quite out in my reckoning. 
You are a poet; you are a philosopher; two ex- 
cellent reasons for understanding everything; and, 
all at once, I discover that there exists in your 
mind (how shall X express it ?) the coarse ideas of 
a bourgeois , for can I qualify otherwise the gross 
suspicions you have entertained, the gross explana- 
tion you had invented of my conduct ?” 

Then, forestalling the question of Didier: “ This 
telegram? Oh Lord! yes; you are broiling with 
impatience to speak to me about it. 

“ This affair seems awkward to you, and I deserve 
to be hung. God only knows how many fine rea- 
sonings you have gone through on this subject. 
W ould you like to know the real truth ? In the 
afternoon, as I was walking towards the Versailles 
station to return to Paris, the idea of letting you 
sup alone with Carminette tickled my fancy. ‘ I 
foresaw the consequences,’ you will say. Yes, but 
it is not as you think. I said to myself, Thi 5 ex- 
traordinary man who preaches to me, scolds me, 
X should like to know how he would pass through 
certain trials. Had you succumbed, I should have 
enjoyed your confusion; that would have set me at 
my ease. I should have taken pleasure in putting 
down your philosophical pride, and having you 
under my thumb. I confess I should have felt 
less the weight of my debt, and that, in paying it, 
I should have taken the air of one who was making 


PROSPER. 


159 

you a present. You are a clever man ! Look at 
me straight in the eyes. Do you not see that it 
would have been exactly that ? As to Carminette, 
I was not sorry to feel her pulse. For some time 
she had occasioned me some anxieties which the 
event, alas ! has only too well justified. You know 
the mania children have for breaking their toys to 
see what is inside ; but 'it did not enter into my 
plan to surprise you. What would be the use? 
Carminette is a girl who would boast of every- 
thing. She would have told me all about it, and 
shouted with laughter. But we always reckon 
without our host. Just as I was applauding my- 
self for my invention, planned after an excellent 
meal, inspired by the gentle vapors of a sparkling 
little wine of Ai, all at once the fumes disperse, 
the demon of jealousy is gnawing at my heart, I 
shoot away like an arrow, I arrive, my head burn- 
ing, beside myself, and shaking with fever. 

“ Oh, enchanting spectacle ! Carminette was 
reading the Hums, and you listening to her, with 
the gentle and reflective air of a Turkish camel- 
driver taking his kief amid the ruins of Palmyra. 
I was really dying to embrace you, but your looks 
chilled my tenderness and my courage, and I had 
the air of a criminal when I was scarcely an 
offender.” 

And then, both to put Didier on his guard 
against rash judgments, and to cure him of his 
bourgeois coarseness, he unfolded to him a theory, 
which, stripped of all oratorical flourish, amounted 
nearly to this : that poets may, like all the rest of 
the world, have ugly thoughts ; that as no one is 
perfect, they may occasionally be somewhat grasp- 
ing and eager for money, but that they are inca- 
pable of plan, or of depth in evil-doing, and that 
they must never be suspected of any calculation in 
villany : that in truth the preoccupations of their 


i6o 


PROSPER. 


profession often throw them out in their little 
schemes, and that at the very moment when their 
snares are prepared, neglecting the game they had 
so carefully laid in wait for, they forget everything 
else, and take to hunting for verses. 

“ True poets,” he said, “ are a whimsical com- 
pound of indifference and passion; they have ac- 
cesses of carelessness which disconcert their covet- 
ous plans. At one moment they long for things 
which at the next they despise, and, according to 
the caprice of their humor, they would give all the 
treasures of Golconda for a rhyme that escapes 
them while they are looking for it.” Conclusion: 
poets can never he wholly rogues, a truth which 
he illustrated by a multitude of examples drawn 
from universal history. 

If these are not the exact terms of which he 
made use, this was nearly the meaning of his dem- 
onstration, which was not very edifying, as may be 
supposed, to Didier. And, nevertheless, he was 
very glad to discover that he had almost calumni- 
ated his brother; he felt that at this moment Pros- 
per was speaking the truth. To be sure, he re- 
gretted that it cost him so little to utter this truth; 
his excuses were as glib and careless as his ac- 
tions ; but there was no hypocrisy in his behavior, 
and hypocrisy was in Didier’s eyes the only unpar- 
donable sin. If his brother, instead of breaking 
plates, had involved himself in humble protesta; 
tions, he would have broken with him forever. 

He contented himself with answering, in an icy 
tone, that he accepted his explanations, that he 
would never again suspect him of villany planned 
beforehand, but that Prosper must kindly allow 
him to be on his guard in future against the ex- 
ceeding amplitude of his sleeves. He then asked 
him what important affair had brought him to 
Nyons. Prosper answered that he would explain 


PROSPER. 


161 


it to him later, that they were about to continue 
their journey together, for he, like Didier, was 
going to Saint May. The cold manner of the lat- 
ter made him uneasy: he knew that before iron is 
shaped it must be heated. He swore within him- 
self to have his revenge for the other’s spite and 
sulky humor; and to make Didier unbend a little, 
he recited to him some verses which he had com- 
posed on the treason of Carminette. It happened 
that these verses were perhaps the best he had ever 
made; they had been inspired by a true feeling ; 
there was something sincere in both their form and 
meaning; a gentle melancholy breathed through 
them, mingled with an easy gayety. 

From the very first word, Didier felt himself 
gained over. “ Oh, the traitor ! ” thought he. He 
tried to conceal his pleasure, but he adored talent 
and had never been able to resist his imagination. 
The cloud which had overhung his brow cleared. 
Prosper perceived, and applauded himself for the 
effect he produced; and he clapped his hands on 
hearing his Mentor exclaim, “ Try always to make 
verses like these.” 

“And this means,” he replied, “that I must pro- 
vide myself with Carminettes for the rest of my 
days. The advice is good; I shall profit by it.” 
And rising, he picked up two fragments of plates, 
and repeated the last couplet of his song, accom- 
panying himself at the same time with these im- 
provised castanets. 

“ It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” ex- 
claimed he, as he finished his song. “ This proverb 
was invented for poets. Public and private calam- 
ities, treasons, earthquakes, plagues, and massacres, 
all may be of service to their genius, and their 
imagination takes its property where it finds it. 
The faithless Carminette has inspired me with 
verses which are lucky enough to please you, and 


PROSPER. 


1 62 

the plates I broke serve me to make music with. 
Let us draw profit from everything — this is the 
maxim of wise men — and may everything end with 
a song ! ” 

When Didier had settled his account with the 
hostess, the two brothers mounted their horses, and 
set out once more for Saint May. The moment for 
explanations had come. Proudly fixed in his sad- 
dle, straight as a lance, his nostrils expanded, cleav- 
ing the air with his whip, Prosper prepared to sat- 
isfy the curiosity of Didier, and inform him what 
service he was expecting from his good-nature. 
He entered upon a long recital, interrupted by 
frequent digressions. Didier listened to him with 
all his attention, and meditated. After the fortu- 
nate revolution which had taken place in his for- 
tune, M. Lermine had lifted his head, caught the 
scent, and followed the first game which presented 
itself to him. He burned to revenge himself for his 
defeat, for his humiliation — to enter again upon his 
rble of an important personage, and prove to the 
whole universe, by incontestable arguments, that he 
had returned from death to life. He had, however, 
become somewhat cooled in the matter of sculpture; 
he bore it a grudge. Wishing to try something else, 
he bethought himself that he could render the most 
effective service to the good cause by founding a 
weekly paper, in which all the productions of lit- 
erature and the arts should be appreciated, and 
judged from the Christian point of view. “There 
is no more criticism,” he said, “ because there are 
no more principles; and how can there be princi- 
ples, unless we begin by having dogmas ? ” 

The Catholic Censor (this was the title he pro- 
posed giving to his paper) must serve as a beacon 
to young literature, withdraw it from perdition, 
and propagate this great truth: that for poetry, as 
well as for art, there is no salvation out of church. 


PROSPER. 


163 

If he had consulted only his zeal and the marvel- 
lous fertility of his pen, M. Lermine would have 
taken upon himself the whole charge of conduct- 
ing his journal. He was able to cover with ink a 
whole ream of paper in eight days; but he feared 
that his style, which he otherwise esteemed most 
highly, might appear old-fashioned and somewhat 
insipid to the readers of the present day, who have 
a taste only for what tickles the palate and pricks 
the tongue. Accordingly, he desired to find a sec- 
retary, who would be at the same time his editor, 
committing to him the care of converting his lucu- 
brations into attractive morsels. This secretary 
must be one of those good fellows, who, according 
to the expression of the poet, “ has his cuisine in 
his pocket, and his pepper ready ground.” M. Ler- 
mine did not require him to have ideas — he himself 
had enough for two. But he demanded a great 
deal of modesty and a great deal of talent, theo- 
logical virtues and cleverness “ to kill,” an abundant 
faith in metaphors, a charity beyond everything, 
infinite submission in mind, and the noble pride of 
a free and unfettered pen. 

This was asking a good deal. Accordingly, M. 
Lermine had sworn that if ever he laid hands on 
the precious subject, he would reward his services 
magnificently. He might be trusted for that ; he 
had never refused anything to his fancies, and his 
money burned in his pockets. Prosper had got 
wind of his plans. He was acquainted with the 
good man , and understood all the profit he might 
draw from his whims. Unhappily, he was in a bad 
position for recommending himself to his good 
graces. During two years, he had exercised a sort 
of lieutenancy in the queen’s corner. He was one 
of the chief supports of that detested cabal which 
M. Lermine called the friends of my wife , and the 
good man had more than once to complain of 


PROSPER. 


164 

his free and easy airs, his cavalier ways, and his 
derisive tone. But great courage signalizes itself 
on great occasions. 

Prosper presented himself boldly in M. Ler- 
mine’s study, and attempted to enter into negotia- 
tions; he met with a haughty reception, and was 
abruptly dismissed. “You have mistaken the 
door,” said M. Lermine, breaking short the inter- 
view. “ Mme. Lermine is surely in her drawing- 
rooms.” Then, sinking his head between his shoul- 
ders, “ I am one of those men who count for nothing, 
who are hardly perceived, who do not exist.” 

Prosper withdrew, confused and mortified; but 
he would not allow himself to be defeated by this 
first check, and resolved to pursue his point. He 
was not wanting in penetration, knew how to find 
the weak spot in men and things. He composed a 
prospectus of the Catholic Censor , and when he 
had put the last touch to this piece of eloquence, 
he sent it to M. Lermine, who experienced the 
surprise and pleasure of finding in it his own ideas 
propounded in a vigorous style, full of images, 
loaded with color, and rich with embroidery. It 
was a masterpiece of that truculent devotion 
which at the present day is preferred to all the 
elevations of Bossuet, and the honey of Fenelon. 

Two or three days afterwards, Randoce received 
a note couched in these terms : 

“ Monsieur, I am sincerity itself, and I will con- 
fess, that I feel, myself divided between the ad- 
miration which I cannot refuse to your talent, and 
the slight taste with which your person inspires 
me. I will reflect and make my decision known to 
you later.” 

Meantime, M. Lermine had set out for Saint 
May, and Prosper had made no delay in starting 
to catch him there. He believed in his star; he 
delighted in trying his luck; he had sworn to take 


PROSPER. 


165 

the place by assault, but the assistance of Didier 
might be very useful in triumphing over the re- 
sentment of M. Lermine. Didier stood high in the 
esteem of the good man ; if pushed on by him, 
Prosper felt sure that his business was done. 
Therefore he had decided to stop at Nyons, claim 
his services, and entreat him to go with him to 
Saint May. Fortune had served him well. Didier 
had forestalled his wish, and Prosper had had 
the lucky chance of overtaking him on the road. 
Everything foretold a prompt and easy success : 
he promised himself to disarm the prejudices of 
M. Lermine, by the charms of his mind and the 
frank simplicity of his manners ; in short, he 
would prove to him that Prosper Randoce was, 
taken all in all, a good fellow. The eloquence of 
Didier should do the rest. Didier had listened in 
profound silence to this recital and these conclu- 
sions. Prosper was awaiting his reply, but he did 
not make haste to give him one. He observed the 
landscape with a dreamy air, and stroked his 
horse’s mane with his whip. His companion grew 
impatient, and looking askance at him, “Really, 
you are wanting in enthusiasm ! ” said he. “ I ex- 
pected that you would congratulate me, encourage 
me. Do you know that you are hardly consist- 
ent ? What ! You want me to settle down, to 
learn to live correctly. Don’t you see that the 
noble functions to which I aspire are going to cure 
me radically of baccarat and all my foolish loves ? 
Say what you will, the cowl does make the monk. 
Let me once get into the skin of a Catholic censor, 
and in less than eight days I shall be a little 
wooden saint. But do speak, my dear sir ! At 
least do me the favor of pronouncing your ob- 
jection.” 

“ I will not conceal from you that I entertain a 
good many,” answered Didier. “ And first, this 


PROSPER. 


1 66 

solemn vow you have made to consecrate yourself 
entirely to high art, I regret that you are so 
quick to break it. The Son of Faust — ” 

“ Shall lose nothing by it,” interrupted Randoce. 
“ Quite the contrary. What the deuce ! A work of 
that importance, and one which is to revolutionize 
the theatre, cannot be written offhand, all in a breath, 
and in a given time. Is a poet an artisan working 
at his task ? Inspiration is not to be bidden. The 
spirit of God bloweth where it liketh, and when it 
listeth. Poetry has its time for repose, and we 
must wait its good pleasure ; but meantime we 
must have something to make the pot boil. You 
will say to me : 4 Come and live with me.’ No, 
no, my dear fellow, I will not set foot in your 
castle until I shall have paid my debt, and to this 
end my Catholic Censor must help me. I thought 
you were a jolly, obliging creditor. Plague upon 
it ! You carry about your fifty thousand francs 
creditorship in your eyes. . . . Besides, are we 

not placed in this world on purpose to utilize all 
our capacities and talents ? In vain should I try 
to conceal it from you. I hunt all sorts of game, 
feathered and four-footed. There is in your ser- 
vant a poet, and also a journalist. I must support 
all my retainers. Let each one have his place in 
the sunshine.” 

44 One other objection,” resumed Didier, 44 1 pass 
by several better ones, perhaps. Do yog really 
feel a decided vocation for religious polemics ? I 
do not doubt your zeal, but is there in you the 
stuff of aNonotte?” 

44 1 feel myself made for all grand professions. I 
possess all the noble ambitions. To make witticisms 
at the expense of the church is the Asses’ Bridge. 
Every one can do that, but to make them against 
Y oltaire, there is something which brings a man into 
notice. I see a place to take; I shall take it.” 


PROSPER. 

“ It is taken. A certain writer of my acquaint- 
ance—” 

“ Oh, yes, he has talent. But you must not over- 
rate him. He intones his song bravely enough; but 
at the finest parts, Crack ! we hear nothing but the 
nasal drone of a sexton ! ” 

“Gently, gently, please ! You are very severe. 
This man is a stylist ; he belongs to the school of 
fine language, and his way of writing — ” 

“ Is admirable, no doubt; it is the veiy perfection 
of the polished style. Not a single stray hair; this 
style is as smooth and even as the chin of a young 
page. I am on my guard against these smooth 
writers; they have no trouble in arranging their 
beards, but I fear they are wanting in all that makes 
man. Ah, my friend, before deriding new ideas, try 
to prove that your scorn is something else besides a 
radical incapacity for love. Narsit walks about 
with haughty and indifferent mien in the seraglio of 
Ispahan ; his feelings are calm, the beauties, of 
whom he catches now and then a glimpse, awaken 
no desire in him; either nature or a certain ceremony 
has placed him beyond the reach of all temptation, 
but secretly he is enraged at not being tempted, 
and to console himself, he insults the sultanas in 
smooth prose. You see, my dear sir, there is 
still one place vacant, that of a man who speaks of 
what he knows, and who hates sultanas only be- 
cause he has loved them too much.” 

“My mind is a very positive one,” answered 
Didier. “ To make a hare-stew, you must first 
catch your hare. To make a Catholic censor — ” 

“Ah, come now! What do you know of my 
doctrines ? ” interrupted Prosper, mounting at once 
on his high horse. 

“Nothing,” answered Didier, smiling, “and I 
think that is about all that can be known ; but, con- 
sidering the life you lead — ” 


1 68 


PROSPER. 


“You are a pedant, my dear fellow. What 
was said of President Seguier will be said of 
you: he rendered decrees , not services. The life 
I lead ! With what trifles do you amuse your- 
self ? One thing I can assure you of, and that is, 
that never, no, never, would the idea have come 
into my head, of making Carminette read The 
Ruins of Yolney. I suspected too much the can- 
dor of this virginal creature. Let us talk sense; it 
is not morality, it is dogma, which makes the 
Christian. Morality is something very vague, very 
confused, very elastic. Where does it begin ? 
where does it end? and as M. Jourdain says, what 
does it sing, this morality ? Do you know many 
people who give all their goods to the poor, who, 
when smitten on the right cheek, obligingly pre- 
sent the left ? This is, properly speaking, Christian 
morality. As soon as you abate from this perfec- 
tion, each one is free to choose according to his 
taste, and measure the dose to suit his own tem- 
perament. But dogma is quite another affair. You 
may take it or leave it. Do you believe ? or do you 
not believe ? Now let me inform you, M. Un- 
believer, that dogma has always been my strong 
point. I do not pique myself on being a great 
theologian ; I content myself with the faith of the 
coal-heaver. # If, until now, I have kept this fact 
secret from you, doubtless I had my reasons for so 
doing.” 

And then he obligingly explained to Dldier, that 
he was born of very pious parents, and that his 
father, during his lifetime, had never failed to go to 
Easter confession. Didier was ignorant of this de- 
tail of Pochon’s life. Brought up by this devout 
attendant of the service of the church, Prosper had 
long joined practice to faith. He owned that later, 
carried away by the tumult of the world, and by 
the warmth of his curiosity, he had given in to the 


PROSPER. 


169 

heresies of the day ; hut he had found therein 
nothing to satisfy him, and every time he re- 
entered into himself, he discovered an ancient fund 
of most lively faith, which every year put fresh 
shoots in his heart. He knew not what to fix upon : 
he possessed a Catholic imagination. The sound 
of bells gave him a strange thrill, the sight of a 
cassock plunged him into a re very. Wisdom, he 
said, cannot explain all the apparent absurdities of 
things, and it is well that there should be, here 
below, black robes to remind men that their life is 
wrapped in the bosom of an eternal mystery, like 
the child in its mother’s womb. 

Then, rising in his stirrups, “ Besides,” he cried, 
in a thundering voice, “ is it not the part of an 
honest heart to espouse the side of the feeble, 
against the powers of the day ? People and kings, 
the whole universe, are leagued against a poor old 
man, who, strong in his infirmity, defying destiny, 
disarms the insolence of his conquerors by his 
passive endurance of misfortune, and shows them 
the power of a weakness which stands firm, and 
crowns itself with its own defeats. Voltaire and 
the god Pan triumph; the church is persecuted, to- 
morrow, perhaps. She will re-enter the catacombs. 
For whoever bears in his breast the heart of a true 
knight, it is sweet to don the colors of *the august 
victim, and to break a lance for her. I will trample 
on the basilisk. I will crush the dragon under my 
foot.” 

“ The wretch is reciting his prospectus at me ! ” 
thought Didier, whose nerves were greatly rasped 
by this noisy eloquence ; and, his eyes fixed on this 
valiant Knight of the Church, he thought of those 
devout brigands, who, lying in wait for their prey, 
make the ejaculatory prayer over their carbines : 
“ Oh Lord, grant that I may take true aim! ” 

A short distance beyond Sahune opens a tortu- 
8 


PROSPER . 


170 

ous defile, about four leagues long. In this nar- 
row opening hollowed out by the Aygues , there is 
only room for the river and the road; indeed, most 
of the road has been cut in the cliff. On the right 
and left rise the walls of rocks, whose massive 
blocks, which seem to have been levelled with a 
chalk line, resemble in some places entablatures, 
architraves, battlements, and cornices; here and 
there these banks, piled one on another, are broken 
into by wide crevices, into which has rushed a 
perfect cascade of vegetation. Resinous trees, 
arbutes, thick-growing shrubs and bushes, dwarf- 
trees, all this verdure seems to be making an effort 
to resist the declivity which drags it downward. 
It fastens itself where it can, to stop falling, and 
remains, as it were, suspended above the transpar- 
ent waters of the Aygues. Just above these clefts 
in the rock, you may discern from the road the 
round tops of some olive-trees, which are lazily 
warming themselves in the sun, while the gorge is 
still in shadow, and catches but a glimpse of a 
slender fragment of sky through the embrasure of 
its ramparts. Shut in on all sides, the river rushes 
along with a great noise, and this deafening music 
came just at the right time to save Didier from lis- 
tening any longer to the declamations of his 
brother. The latter held forth without stopping; 
caring little whether any one listened to him, he 
was talking to himself, and trying to convince 
himself, or rather, as Didier thought, Randoce was 
trying to persuade Prosper, and his turbulent elo- 
quence kindled by degrees this obliging hearer who 
asked no better than to be convinced. Any one 
might have wagered odds that before arriving at 
Saint May, Prosper would be ready to give his 
head for the good cause. 

Didier slackened the pace of his nag, and al- 
lowed his brother to go on in advance of him. 


PROSPER. 


171 

At one of the windings of the road he lost sight 
of him, and felt a momentary impulse to turn hack. 
If his horse had been a little faster, perhaps, he 
might have yielded to the temptation, but Prosper 
was better mounted than he. At the moment 
when he was calculating the chances of an escape, 
he heard his brother call him, and, resigning him- 
self to his fate, he redoubled his speed to rejoin 
him. 

“You have heard the case,” cried Prosper to 
him. “ I count upon you.” 

“ My dear friend,” answered Didier, very dryly, 
“you seem to wish to make me answer for you. 
Be good enough to tell me what you intend me 
to go security for. For your talent ? M. Lermine 
is quite able to judge of that himself ; he has read 
your prospectus. Of the sincerity of your convic- 
tions? That is an affair for you and your con- 
sciences to settle together. Of your virtues ? — ” 

“You are beating about the bush,” interrupted 
Prosper, in a tone of vexation. “ M. Lermine will 
interrogate you neither about my talents nor my 
convictions. He will only ask you if I am a per- 
son easy to live with, reliable in my intercourse 
with others, punctual in fulfilling my engage- 
ments.” 

“ And must I, for his edification, detail to him 
my little personal experiences ? ” 

Prosper was piqued ; for want of plates to 
break, he fetched a vigorous stroke of his whip 
across the neck of his Bucephalus, who gave a 
spring, and nearly threw him. When he had 
quieted the horse — -“ One word more, and I have 
finished,” he resumed. “ Before refusing me the 
slight service I claim of you, please think of the 
consequences. I am now in a good vein, I ask 
only to do well; but necessity, it has been said, is 
the mother of invention. There are noble profes- 


172 


PROSPER. 


sions, there are ignoble ones. If, through your 
fault I should be obliged to give up earning my 
bread honorably, upon my word, I should get out 
of the scrape in the best way I can find, for I warn 
you that I am determined to live. This is what I 
beg you to reflect upon.” 

Didier made no answer, and the two brothers 
journeyed on in silence. There was a rupture 
threatening in the air. One word more, and all 
would be over. Both felt that a crisis was near, 
and giving themselves up to their reflections, took 
good care not to unclose their lips. 

They soon reached a spot where the road was 
undergoing repairs. A dozen workmen, most of 
them Piedmontese, were occupied in clearing away 
the ruins of a crumbled wall. A truck, unharnessed 
and loaded with fragments of stone, had been 
placed across the road, and obstructed all the free 
space left between two large heaps of pebbles. 
Addressing the wagoner, who, seated on one of the 
shafts, was smoking his pipe without disturbing 
himself, Didier asked him politely to clear the way 
for them. The Piedmontese, who was a brutal 
fellow, turned a deaf ear to them. Didier was in 
no humor for laughing: he reiterated his demand 
in a sharp tone. The carter lost his temper ; lay- 
ing down his pipe, he picked up his whip, the han- 
dle of which he raised over Didier’s head. The 
latter extended his hand to seize the whip, but 
Randoce had already leaped to the ground; he 
sprang upon the aggressor, whom he seized by the 
throat, and, profiting by the surprise of his sudden 
attack, threw him down to the foot of the slope, to 
which the brute rolled without hurting himself. 
Thinking he might return to the charge, Prosper 
awaited him firmly, but the carter did not want 
any more; his feet in the water, he contented him- 
self with vociferating, and calling on his comrades 


PROSPER. 


173 


to take up his quarrel. This little adventure had 
restored all his good-humor to Prosper. His hair 
floating in the wind, his hands clinched, he faced 
about towards the workmen, and shouted to them 
in a thundering voice, which roused all the echoes 
of the defile : 

“ Come, men of Morocco , Castile, and Navarre! 

All ye heroes of Spain ! Let me see what you are ! ” 

The laborers, who knew themselves in the wrong, 
were careful not to accept his challenge ; some of 
them began to laugh, others drew the cart to one 
side. Prosper sprang at one bound into the sad- 
dle, and our two horsemen resumed their journey. 

Sometimes a very little thing suffices to change 
the course of what Descartes calls our animal spir- 
its. Didier, who, a moment before, had judged his 
brother with extreme severity, suddenly felt his ir- 
ritation calm itself, and give place to more moder- 
ate sentiments. He did not, like Don Ferdinand, 
say to himself, “ The flight of the Moors is the 
flight of his crime,” but he was charmed with the 
little exhibition of vigor which Prosper had just 
made. 

At the moment when the latter, turning to face 
the workmen, had cast at them his half tragic, half 
comic defiance, Didier had been struck by his 
beauty. He was too much of- an artist in soul, not 
to be greatly affected^in his judgment by accesso- 
ries and appearances. In short, he was inclined to 
look upon his half-brother in a less unfavorable 
light ; and, recovering from his first impressions, 
he said within himself, that, after all, it belongs to 
God alone to sound the reins and the heart, and 
that it was not impossible that, without being a 
"very fervent Christian, Prosper might have pre- 
served from the habits of his childhood a disposi- 
tion inclining to faith. He said to himself also, 
that intercourse with a man so honorable as M. 


PROSPER. 


174 

Lermine could not but be profitable to Randoce, 
that in keeping up continued relations with the 
good man , he might perhaps learn to restrain him- 
self and to respect himself. Did it not often hap- 
pen that steps taken from interested motives turned 
out an occasion of salvation to sinners ? The 
tempter is often caught in his own snares, and if 
hell be paved with good intentions, God knows how 
to draw advantage from bad ones. In other terms, 
the profession makes the man, and if it prays, un- 
less his heart be bad indeed, at the end of two 
years of practice, he will act in good faith. Phi- 
losopher as he was, Didier believed that a devout 
Prosper would do better than a Prosper speculating 
in Carminettes. 

Another consideration struck him also, and he 
was astonished at not having thought of it sooner. 
M. de Peyrols had been a very loose Catholic, but 
although he hardly ever went to confession, he had 
always shown himself ‘respectful towards the 
clergy, well disposed towards pious works ; it was 
not from him that Didier had imbibed his religious 
scepticism. He represented to himself that, were 
his father to return to earth, he would not be dis- 
pleased at finding his natural son employing his 
talents in the defence of the Church, and that he 
would willingly urge him forward in that direction. 

All this reasoning, good or bad, caused him to re- 
gret having somewhat roughly refused to intercede 
in Prosper’s behalf. I am ignorant whether the 
latter perceived the change of mind so favorable to 
his interests, but he had the good taste not to re- 
sume the discussion. He began to talk literature 
with a happy ease, and became again all at once 
the Prosper of better days, or rather better hours. 
The conversation grew animated. Insensibly 
Didier unfurled his sails. The two brothers were 
almost sure of agreeing on certain subjects ; if 


PROSPER . 


175 

their tastes were not the same, they had at least 
many dislikes in common ; both professed the 
same horror of the conventional. 

At last they arrived within sight of a little val- 
ley, which debouches on the right bank of the 
Aygues. The village of Saint May occupies the en- 
trance of this gorge ; it is perched on a little emi- 
nence, flanked by natural walls and bastions, and 
fronted by a rounded rock which rises majestically 
in the form of a turret, and is washed at its base by 
the river. Nothing could be more romantic than 
this colossal fortress and this village surrounded 
with precipices. It is a site worthy of Ariosto ; 
some Castle of Alaine must have been placed for- 
merly on this spot, and it would not seem strange to 
behold at the foot of the winding path which creeps 
round the rock, a squire appear, clad in coat of 
mail, sounding his trumpet, and proposing to the 
passers-by some hazardous deed of prowess, or the 
deliverance of some enchanted princess. A stone 
bridge connects the Nyons road with the path which 
ascends to the village. Near this bridge is a hos- 
telry, which has not the air of a palace, and oppo- 
site the inn, on the other side of the way, a foun- 
tain, ornamented with this inscription : 

Siste, bibe , vale et redi. 

“My dear fellow, I think we have reached your 
stopping-place,” said Prosper, as he perceived the 
first houses of Saint May. “ As for me, since it is 
against my conscience to impose myself on any one, 
or put any restraint on your liberty, I intend to 
push on as far as Remuzat. There a muleteer is 
to bring my baggage to me this evening and take 
this horse back to Nyons. Act as you think best ; 
you are a better judge than I of the situation. If 
M. Lermine appears to you well-disposed towards 
me, pray let me know of it to-morrow : if not, I 
shall return as quickly as possible to Paris.” 


PROSPER. 


176 

At the moment of their arrival, M. Lermine was 
standing before the door of the inn, talking with 
some one. When he saw Didier appear, he raised 
his arms to heaven, and cried : “ Ad nos , ad salu- 
tarem undam / ” but on recognizing his acolyte he 
knit his brows. Prosper hastened to make a sign 
of farewell to his brother, bowed profoundly to M. 
Lermine, and spurring his horse, galloped off in the 
direction of Remuzat. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

M. Lekmine began by taking his guest to the 
room he had prepared for him. They met again, 
in a few moments, at the border of the fountain, 
and Didier had to taste the marvellous water. He 
did not have to be urged to find it excellent, and 
this was only just, for this water knows not its 
equal, both for softness and flavor, without reckon- 
ing that, like the famous fountain of Trevi, it has 
a faint odor of violet. 

Afterwards, they walked as far as the village, 
and on the way, M. Lermine acquainted Didier 
with all his little affairs. He was one of those men 
who like to talk about themselves — a pleasure from 
which he had long been cut off. He spoke to Di- 
dier of his health, his projects, his hopes, with the 
effusion of a man who has believed himself drown- 
ing, and whom a miracle has brought again to the 
surface. In all that had happened to him, he be- 
held the finger of Providence. He promised him- 
self not to be behindhand; in founding his paper, 
he meant to pay back both principal and arrears. 
His ever-flowing chatter fatigued Didier somewhat, 


PROSPER. 


1 77 

but lie did not allow this to be perceived. The 
contentment of the good man was so simple, and 
his self-love so full of good will towards others, 
that it would have been a shame to disabuse him. 
Didier, who never had any illusions on his own ac- 
count, was very tolerant towards those of others. 
Everything that was sincere found grace in the 
presence of his irony. 

As soon as they had re-entered the house, they 
sat down to table. The hostess served them an 
excellent repast. M. Lermine having long before- 
hand informed her of his arrival, she had provided 
herself with a cordon bleu , sure of being liberally 
reimbursed for all her expenditures. Towards the 
end of the meal, M. Lermine, who had hitherto 
taken care not to speak of Randoce, entered into 
the business with great abruptness. 

“ I had written to you,” he began, without pref- 
ace, “ that I desired to obtain from you certain 
information. According to all appearance, you are 
a member of the silent academy of Amadan, and, 
like Doctor Zeb, you love to answer without open- 
ing your mouth. To avoid all explanation, you 
have arrived here in the company of M. Randoce. 
This was saying to me clearly, ‘ Have all confi- 
dence. I answer for him as for myself.’ ” 

“ Ah, permit me,” said Didier. “ M. Randoce 
joined me on the road — ” 

“ Bah, no evasions ! ” interrupted M. Lermine, 
smiling. “ Do not deny it, you wish well to this 
young man. I will confess to you that I had strong 
prejudices against him. I suspected him of being 
conceited, free in conversation and manners, unscru- 
pulous, unsafe, of slippery morals, living from hand 
to mouth, one of those men who take an ell if you 
give them an inch, and who in everything confound 
use with abuse. This is the idea I had of him. 
Evidently I was mistaken. I flatter myself that I 


PROSPER. 


178 

know you — a true gentleman like you must be ex- 
acting in friendship, severe in his choice; whence I 
conclude that M. Randoce has some faults, but that 
the foundation is excellent. Otherwise, would you 
have admitted him into your intimacy ? ” 

Somewhat embarrassed, Didier contented him- 
self with inclining his head, in token of assent. 
“ It is well understood,” continued M. Lermine, 
“ that I do not demand of you to guarantee me the 
sincerity of his conviction — that is an affair to be 
discussed between him and me. On these questions, 
an unbeliever like you- has no voice in the chapter, 
but I am enchanted at your answering for his char- 
acter. This young man possesses an exceptional 
. talent, which I should be glad indeed to employ for 
the good cause. If ever we enter into negotiations, 
he shall not, I swear to you, have anything to com- 
plain of in me. There, listen to this,” and at these 
words, he took from his pocket a manuscript, which 
he began to read aloud. It was. the famous pros- 
pectus, more than one passage of which was familiar 
to Didier already. M. Lermine declaimed this 
piece of eloquence in a grave, slow voice, emphasiz- 
ing almost every word, giving full effect to every 
turn of phrase, interrupting himself with, “Well, 
what do you think of it ? ” He reminded one of 
an epicure, tasting a wine of the first quality. 
When he had finished— “ But, by the way,” he 
said, “ where did your protege go ? ” 

“ M. Randoce was uncertain as to what reception 
you might give him. He thought it more suitable 
to go on, and wait at Remuzat for your decision.” 

“ That is a stroke of modesty which seems to me 
of favorable augury. • A wise friend is a real treas- 
ure. Confess that you advised him to take this 
step.” 

“ I repeat to you,” answered Didier, “ that this 
morning I left Nyons alone, but at Sahune — ” 


PROSPER. 


179 

M. Lermine interrupted him again. Threaten- 
ing him with his finger, “Ah, Mr. Philosopher, 

I catch you in the act of mental reservation.” And 
he added : “ W ell, it is all the same, but it is odd 
enough that the director of a Catholic journal 
should receive his chief editor from the hands of a 
heretic ! Bah ! Christian or not, all honest men 
belong to the same fraternity.” 

The next morning, at the demand of M. Ler- 
mine, Didier despatched a messenger to his brother. 
However pleased Prosper might be at the news he 
received, he knew how to restrain his eagerness, 
and went to Saint May only in the afternoon. 
The trio took a long excursion up tlhe mountain. 
The good man had his days of cunning ; he wished 
Prosper to buy his good fortune dearly ; he made 
it a point to treat him cavalierly, to keep him 
waiting, hardly speaking to him, paying little 
attention to him personally, except that from time 
to time he let off an epigram at him. Prosper was 
too shrewd not to see that he was being put on his 
trial ; he took everything in good part, kept 
modestly in his place without impatience and with- 
out cringing. 

On their return, M. Lermine wished him to * 
stay to dinner ; Prosper found a civil pretext for 
refusing. When he had gone, M. Lermine said to 
Didier : “I begin to think that you are right; I 
have judged this young man wrongfully. He is 
wanting neither in reserve nor in good breeding. 
People were in a fair way of spoiling him. With 
the help of God we shall make something of him.” 

The next day all the ice melted ; it was a regular 
thaw. M. Lermine took Prosper into his room, 
where they remained shut up together for three 
hours. Both left the conference charmed with 
each other, each saying : “ I have found my man.” 

They all took a walk again, and this time it was 


i8o 


PROSPER. 


Prosper who led the conversation ; he would will- 
ingly have taken Didier as a target to get his hand 
in, but the latter refused the combat, not that he 
feared the discussion, but it was repugnant to him 
to fence with a Harlequin’s sword. 

When Prosper was demonstrating by invincible 
arguments that the secret of Art is faith, he con- 
tented himself with answering, “Good faith you 
mean.” And at one moment when they found 
themselves alone together, “You have a precious 
gift,” said he, “ that of taking your own word.” 

“ Precious ! ” answered Prosper. “ Nothing is 
easier. For fifteen days, night and morning, 
swear to your cap, that Mahomet held the moon in 
his sleeve ; on the fifteenth day, you will be as 
convinced of it as the grand mufti himself.” 

“ That is, supposing always,” said Didier, “ that 
I have something to gain from Mahomet.” 

“ Always a pedant,” answered Prosper, making 
a pireouette. 

Still, we must render him this justice, that he 
did not behave meanly, he could not/ be reproached 
with paying his court in a servile way. No bend- 
ing and bowing, no flatteries, none of those low 
tricks to which inferior geniuses have recourse. 
All his skill consisted in understanding M. Ler- 
mine at half-cock ; he penetrated into all his feel- 
ings, entered with marvellous rapidity into all his 
ideas, and gave them expression with a spirit, an 
emphatic eloquence, which enchanted the good 
man , who, transported with delight, gave him, at 
intervals, little taps on the shoulder, or else, turn- 
ing to Didier, seemed to say to him : “ Parry this 
thrust if you can ! ” 

At the end of three days, the pigeon was entirely 
tamed, and only asked to be plucked. It was a 
regular bewitchment, and Prosper had it all his own 
way. M. Lermine flattered himself on having dis- 


PROSPER. 


iSl 


covered in the person of one of his sworn enemies 
the providential instrument of his designs ; these 
are the little surprises which God contrives for his 
elect, and what had occurred seemed to him a 
miracle. Accordingly he yielded himself up with 
perfect abandonment to the charm which fascinated 
him, and his prejudices gave place to an infatuation 
which made Didier uneasy. He felt it his duty to 
give some advice to the good man ; he represented 
to him that Prosper was young, hot-headed, with 
quick passions, and that in view of his own interest, 
he ought not to give him his head too much. He 
would have said more, had not M. Lermine inter- 
rupted him. 

“ Stop there! my dear Peyrols,” said he. “ You 
have funny ways of your own. You begin by sell- 
ing a bargain, and then you call out, ‘ take care ! ’ 
I see that you wish to shield yourself from any 
possible reproach. Know that, if ever I have to 
complain of your protege, I shall blame you for it; 
had it not been for your powerful recommendation, 
he would not have triumphed over my suspicions; 
but you need have no fears; the more I study him, 
the more I am edified by his sentiments. I ex- 
plained to him, the other day, the duties of a 
Christian journalist and I saw that he had reflected 
on these matters. * Yes,’ he said, to me, ‘ we are in 
the service of the Good Shepherd, and we must 
help him feed his flock.’ ” 

These words of shepherd and flock caused Didier 
to make a grimace, He distrusted Prosper’s saintly 
bucolics. He remembered that very pious Greek 
bishop, who had in his youth been a sheep-stealer, 
and who always called that happy period “his 
pastoral life.” 

One morning he took his brother aside, and tried 
to hold a serious conversation with him. 

“ M. Lermine has declared to me,” said he, “ that, 


182 


PROSPER. 


if ever be has reason to complain of you, he shall 
blame your humble servant as the cause. You pre- 
tend to have some friendship for me, and you know 
that I have much to forgive you. Try, on this oc- 
casion, at least, not to make me repent my good- 
nature.” 

“You may rest easy,” answered Prosper. “ What 
reason for complaint could I give this worthy man ? 
He and I are made to get along together; he has a 
very giving disposition, and I a very receiving one. 
Everything arranges itself admirably well; and you 
see that we have been placed in this world to pro- 
mote each other’s happiness. I shall furnish him 
excellent copy, and make him pay for it the highest 
possible price. That is the very foundation of 
commerce, and selling dear is perfectly lawful, pro- 
vided, always, the merchandise be not spoiled, and 
the dealer give good weight.” 

“ Ah, now you speak a language I understand; I 
like that better than the pastorals to which you 
sometimes treat me.” 

“ When will you lay aside yoifr pedantry ? ” 
answered Prosper, shrugging his shoulders. 

At the end of the week, however they might 
urge him to stay, Didier was resolved to go home 
again. Although he felt some friendship for M. 
Lermine, he was excessively bored by his eternal 
alleluias , his fountain, his paper, his absurd visions, 
and mystical similes. Then, too, M. Lermine had 
long confabulations with Prosper, and Didier was 
tired of dancing attendance on them with no object 
to gain. Although the situation of Saint May is 
extremely picturesque, the narrowness of the gorge, 
strangled, as it were, between the two high walls of 
rocks, made him melancholy; he felt as if he were 
down in the hold of a ship; both air and light were 
wanting; he longed to see once more the low hills, 
the wide horizons of the Nyons valley. Having 


PROSPER. 


183 

procured a horse, he took leave of M. Lermine, who 
thanked him warmly for his visit, and promised him 
that as soon as his cure was completed, he would go 
and pass two days at the Guard. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Sahthste seemed to be a place predestined to un- 
expected meetings. As he had done the first time, 
Didier reached there just on the stroke of noon. 
Stifling with the heat he made a halt at the same 
inn where, eight days before, Prosper had appeared 
to him. The landlady received him coldly, and her 
first question was to inquire whether the plate- 
breaker was coming after him. He reassured her, 
and begged her to make haste and give him some 
refreshment. 

The cloth was just laid, when a post-chaise arrived 
at full speed, and drew up before the inn. A lady 
got out of it, accompanied by a maid. She 
opened the door of the dining-room, but on per- 
ceiving Didier, made a gesture of surprise, and 
withdrew precipitately. Although she was veiled, 
and appeared and disappeared in an instant, Didier 
had recognized Mme. Lermine. This second en- 
counter surprised him even more than the first. 
The queen at Sahune ! 

He remembered that some days before M. Ler- 
mine, showing him a sealed en velope, had said, with 
a smile, half sly, and half foolish, “ Here is a mis- 
sive which is a vengeance.” Always incurious 
about the affairs of others, Didier had allowed the 
conversation to drop, without asking any expla- 
nation. There was every probability that this ven- 
geance and the letter were addressed to Madame 


PROSPER . 


184 

Lermine. The good man had not been able to 
deny himself the pleasure of announcing to her 
triumphantly, that the former attendant on the 
queen's corner had passed over to his camp with 
his arms and baggage, and proving to her, by this 
unanswerable argument, the irresistible ascendency 
of his star. 

Didier reasoned aright, but his explanations ex- 
plained nothing. That on receiving this mortifying 
news, Madame Lermine had felt some anger, was 
easy to understand, but to leave Paris at once, and 
come to Saint May, to bring her answer in person — 
simple anger does not usually produce such violent 
elfects. 

“Unless we may suppose,” said Didier to himself, 
“that the queen has resolved to come, humbly to 
implore peace, and drown all remaining bitterness 
in the limpid waters of the miraculous fountain.” 

Tired of seeking a solution to the enigma, he had 
sat down to breakfast, when the hostess announced 
that the strange lady who had just arrived was de- 
sirous of speaking to him. He rose, and found in 
the kitchen the lady’s maid, who begged him to 
follow her. “ Madame is quite ill,” she said; “this 
hurried journey has fatigued her. I hope it will be 
nothing. Madame will never listen to any advice. 
She is no longer young enough for such follies.” 

Chattering on in this way, she led him up a little 
wooden staircase, and giving three knocks at a little 
inner door, made him a sign to enter, and immedi- 
ately withdrew. 

Didier found Madame Lermine seated in an old 
ragged arm-chair near a window. She was very 
pale; her thin and haggard features seemed less 
changed by fatigue than by the ravages of a violent 
grief. She maintained, however, an air of great 
dignity in the midst of her dejection. On seeing 
Didier enter, she raised her head, and*pointed out 


PROSPER. 


185 

a chair to him. He sat down and remained silent, 
waiting for her to begin questioning him. She ap- 
peared to seek with difficulty for the first words of 
a phrase which would not come ; then turning away 
her eyes, she looked at a colored print which hung 
upon the wall. Knowing neither what to think or 
to say, Didier addressed to her some trivial ques- 
tions, which she hardly answered. Finally, she 
made a great effort, and asked him if he had just 
come from Saint May, and if he had seen M. Ler- 
mine. He had hardly finished his reply, when, sud- 
denly putting her handkerchief to her face, she 
burst into tears ; her whole frame was shaken by a 
convulsive trembling — a nervous crisis was evi- 
dently imminent. 

Didier, as disturbed as he was surprised, sprang 
into the corridor, calling the maid, who rushed 
to the help of her mistress. While she lavished all 
sorts of cares upon her, like a person quite used to 
this sort of accident, Didier went down again to the 
kitchen, where he remained on the watch, rightly 
thinking that, as soon as the crisis was past, Ma- 
dame Lermine would send for him again. It is 
thus that the traveller, before the storm bursts, feels 
it already hanging over him, and keeps his eyes 
fixed on that point of the horizon which the first 
streak of lightning will presently kindle. 

In about twenty minutes the maid reappeared, 
and, making many excuses, begged him to go up- 
stairs once more to Madame Lermine, who was 
awaiting him. “For pity’s sake, sir,” said she, 
“ induce Madame not to go on to Saint May — the 
journey can only do her harm.” 

Didier found Madame Lermine in the same place 
and in the same attitude. Scarcely had he closed 
the door when she cried: “You see, sir, what a 
state I am in; since you know all, spare useless 
explanations which are beyond my strength.” 


PROSPER . 


1 86 

“ I do not know, Madame, what you mean,” an- 
swered Didier, approaching her. 

She replied in a tone of contemptuous bitter- 
ness: “Oh, sir, your merits are well known to me. 
The man whose name I have sworn never to pro- 
nounce again has declared to me that you are the 
phoenix of friends, the confidant of all his thoughts, 
his counsellor. You have tried to inspire him with 
serious tastes; you have taught him that it is dan- 
gerous to found one’s fortune on the chimera of a 
woman’s affection — that business is safer; and I am 
very much mistaken, or it is owing to your liberal- 
ity, that this gallant gentleman has succeeded in 
making an honorable retreat.” 

While she was speaking, Didier felt throughout 
his whole frame a most painful shock. “ Oh, the 
wretch! ” he said to himself, in a suppressed voice. 
Then, with an accent of true breeding which re- 
vealed the gentleman, “ I know everything, Ma- 
dame,” he cried, “ because you have told me every- 
thing; but I swear to you that even yesterday — ” 

She interrupted him with an imperious gesture: 
“ And what fiiatters it to you or to me ? Do you 
attach any value to my esteem ? ” And as he was 
returning to the charge and protesting with warmth 
both his ignorance and his good faith: “You are 
making us lose precious time,” she resumed. “ Am 
I in a state to listen to you ? I have one prayer, 
only one, to make to you. Will you deign to lis- 
ten to me?” 

He bowed. 

“A woman,” she continued, “of my character, 
and my age (for he has taken care to inform me of 
my age) can endure many things. She can console 
herself for infidelities, resign herself to treachery. 
I am not very exacting; I consent to live after 
having placed my heart on an object so low that 
I cannot think of it without blushing. My remem- 


PROSPER. 


1 8 7 

brances, my miseries — I accept everything. But, 
indeed, there are efforts impossible to make, insults 
that may not be endured. What! Shall I be ex- 
posed to seeing that man under my roof, to encoun- 
tering his glances? Persuade him, sir, persuade 
this man of honor that I have the right to keep my 
shame at a distance! Let him go aAvay! Let him 
do me the favor to have no existence as far as I am 
concerned. He has so many resources in his own 
ability! Can he find no other way of gaining his 
bread than making money out of the husband after 
having fleeced the wife ? This evening I shall be 
at Saint May. I know not what I may say or do 
when there. Are not you willing to spare us all a 
frightful scene ? Look at me well, sir ; do you not 
feel that I am capable of anything ? ” 

She was speaking the truth. Didier perceived 
only too well that she was no longer mistress of 
herself — that she had completely lost all self-control. 
He hastened to say that he placed himself entirely 
at her disposal, and would await her orders. 

She took a little memorandum-book which was 
lying on the table, tore out a leaf, and wrote rapidly 
these words: “Break with M. Lermine, and go 
away at once, otherwise I shall tell everything.” 
And presenting this leaf to Didier, “ Go, sir ! ” she 
said. “ Go quickly — you have some hours to 
spare; I shall not arrive at Saint May before even- 
ing. If you succeed, I shall, perhaps, consent to 
pardon you.” 

“ I have done nothing to require pardon,” an- * 
swered Didier. 

Five minutes afterward he was again in his sad- 
dle. Spurring his horse, he urged him to full 
speed. When at Paris he had made some acquaint- 
ance with anger; at this moment he was shaken by 
a sort of silent rage, which seemed to gather in his 
brain like a tempest ready to burst forth. He 


PROSPER. 


1 88 

heard a buzzing in liia ears, felt thick pulsations in 
his temples. It seemed to him that, if he had held 
a bar of iron in his hand, he could have bent and 
shaped it like so much melted wax. When the 
horse slackened his pace he spurred him again, and 
made him go on at his best gait. In less than 
three-quarters of an hour the poor beast reached 
Saint May, white with foam, his sides streaming 
with sweat. On arriving at the door of the inn, 
Didier, without alighting, called the hostler, and 
begged him to find out whether M. Randoce was 
there. M. Lermine recognized his voice and came 
running out. 

“ By what fortunate chance — ” he began. 

“Is M. Randoce at Saint May?” interrupted 
Didier, sharply. 

“ No, he is at Remuzat; he works there. In two 
hours he will come and dine here,, and we will look 
over his work together. Ah, ah, I don’t give this 
fellow much breathing time. Before granting 
him his diploma, I must make him execute his 
masterpiece. But you do not explain to me! ” 

“ I met th<? messenger as I was going away. He 
gave me a packet — some very important letters for 
Randoce. I suspect they relate to an affair which 
concerns me also. I wanted to confer with him 
about them. Perhaps he will be forced to return 
without delay to Paris.” 

“Oh, oh, softly ! ” said M. Lermine. “ What sig- 
nify these mysteries of state ? I do not understand 
anything of the kind. We are occupied, he and I, 
in coming to an agreement about our terms of 
business. There remains more than one point to 
be settled.” 

“ Life is full of disappointments,” continued Di- 
dier. “ By the way, I met Madame Lermine at 
Salmne. In a few hours she will be here.” 

“ Madame Lermine ! ” exclaimed the good man , 


PROSPER. jgg 

recoiling three steps. “Mme. Lermine is coming 
to Saint May ! Are you quite sure ? ” 

“ Sure, yes, very sure,” called out Didier, as he 
galloped off again. 

F our o’clock was striking, as he entered abruptly 
the little room of the inn, where Prosper was at 
work. 

“ Who is there ? ” asked the latter, in the tone of 
a man who is disturbed. 

“ I am sorry for you, but it is I.” 

“You! you are quite welcome. Whatever 
brings you here, you come just at the right mo- 
ment. I have something to show you. I have just 
composed an article ; it is really a delicious mor- 
sel. You shall immediately give me your opinion 
upon it, my dear fellow ; everything is progressing 
marvellously. The pot boils. This affair began 
well ; it is becoming superb. While awaiting 
something better, I have asked for twelve hundred 
francs a month and a carriage. M. Lermine is 
bargaining a little bit ; but when he shall have 
read this ! ” and he waved his paper in the air — 

“ I am a troublesome guest,” said Didier, quietly 
— “ I bring you some news which will, I fear, throw 
a shadow on your beatitude.” 

“ What news ? Hang it ! You look like a bat 
who has blundered into a garret, and calls upon all 
the imps below to get him out again. Upon my 
word, my dear fellow, I am in such a good humor 
that I defy all your news to trouble the serenity of 
my soul ; but take a seat, and speak quietly. 
Well ! this news ? ” 

“ It is this ; I met just now — guess whom ? ” 

“ Can it be Dubief ? Tell that Arab, from me, 
that I no longer owe him a sou.” 

“ You are quite out in your guess. It is a 
woman, and the very woman whom to-day you 
would least care to see.” 


PROSPER. 


190 

“ Thank you ! ” said Prosper in a graver tone ; 
“ you are very clever in putting people on.” 

“ I will not keep you in suspense,” replied Didier, 
raising his voice and emphasizing every syllable, — 
“Madame Lermine, who (I may say in passing) 
will arrive almost immediately at Saint May, 
charged me to remind you that she has been your 
mistress.” 

Prosper started and changed color. 

“ I thought you were stronger,” continued his 
brother. “ You defied me to move you, and at the 
very first word, you are quite upset. Come, re- 
cover yourself ! Is your very fertile mind wanting 
in invention? Have you not some story to tell 
me ? ” 

Prosper resumed all his assurance, and, crossing 
his arms, “ I confess,” said he, “ that you have as- 
tonished me. You have a somewhat brusque man- 
ner of attacking questions. You go straight to the 
matter in hand, without any preamble. This 
method produces at first some impression ; the in- 
convenience of it is, that in the long run, one would 
become accustomed to it. Well, my good sir, since 
Madame Lermine has thought fit to inform you 
that I have been her lover, it must be so, and I shall 
not deny it. Good God ! yes, I loved her, and she 
loved me ; I love her no longer, she loves me no 
longer. Thus far we agree perfectly; but there is 
this difference between us, that I never reproach 
her, and that she casts out fire and flames at me. 
When we broke, I was very tired of it, I swear to 
you. Have you any idea what a woman is who 
has passed the whole time of her youth without 
hearing her heart beat, and who decides to embark 
for Cythera at the age when most women leave off ? 
I tell you this for your guidance, and may you 
profit by my experience ! Beware of all women 
who love late in life ! They are not satisfied unless 


PROSPER. 


191 

at the decisive moment you cultivate a respect so 
humble that you might die of it ; they require you 
to ask their pardon for the great liberty, and de- 
mand that pleasure should wait on them hat in 
hand. Add to this the continual care of their rep- 
utation, anxieties, terrors, a mass of precaution, 
depth of mystery. What a time the poor devil 
has of it ! Madame reproaches him with not being 
sensible enough of the value of her favors ; she 
wished to make him happy — a pious labor, pure 
charity! and he must, whether he will or not, be 
profuse in thanks, he must bow down in gratitude, 
go into ecstasies over the immensity of this sacri- 
fice. From the height of this fall, thirty years of 
virtue look down on him. Upon my word, I could 
stand it no longer. If I had remained longer in 
that galley, adieu to my talent \ / Duty before 
everything. I am accountable for the mission I 
have received, and that mission obliges me to make 
fine verses. I have consulted only my conscience, 
and kept my talent ; the rest is very little. Will 
you have a cigar, my dear friend ? ” 

“You slander yourself. The rest is the money. 
You have kept that too. Nothing is changed ex- 
cept the cashier. Whether that be husband or wife, 
what matters it ? A great mind never concerns 
itself about these details.” 

Prosper cast on him a look which was not tender. 
“ Ah, so ! Do you, perhaps, imagine that I owe 
anything to Madame Lermine? She and I are 
quits. If she has made me loans of money which 
I have repaid her, on the other hand I have pro- 
cured her pleasures which, had it not been for me, 
she would never have known. First of all, pretty 
little puffs of literary distinction. I alone, in all 
Paris, have had the boldness to praise her Elegies. 
Is that nothing ? Then I have initiated her into 
all the mysteries, all the enchantments of passion. 


192 


PROSPER. 


It was a fever, an intoxication. Two years of 
adoration ! Do you think that cost me nothing ? 
I should have liked to see you do it. Without reck- 
oning that I constituted myself the mender of all 
her halting verses. How many of these invalids 
have I not bandaged, dressed over, mended up ! 
She had turned my room into a hospital. Come, 
come — when we have to adjust our accounts it will 
be she who owes me, and I have my release in full. 
Take a cigar, my dear fellow ! ” 

“ If your conscience is so clear,” continued Didier, 
restraining himself, “ and if it appears to you so 
simple, so natural, to levy contribution on a man 
whose wife’s lover you have been, whence comes it 
that you have made a mystery to me of your rela- 
tions with Madame Lermine ? Perhaps you find 
me very inquisitive ? ” 

“ Ah, that you are to-day ! but you were not so 
three months ago. Did you take the trouble to 
question me ? This handsome Italian lady — you 
allowed yourself to be taken in by that story. 
W as it for me to disabuse you ? Besides, rouse 
your memory, noble Cato ! At Sahune I showed you 
a receipt, which would have revealed everything to 
you. It only depended upon you to read it.” 

Didier could not say no ; he confessed to him- 
self the justice of this reply, and cursed once more 
his indolence, which made him so chary of word 
and movement. He did not answer ; but, present- 
ing to his brother the brief note of Madame Ler- 
mine, “ Head and meditate ! ” he said. Prosper 
read, and bit his lips until the blood came. 

“Very well,” said he, angrily. “She threatens 
me. I will not give back one inch.” 

“You shall give back. It is I who ask it, and 
who, if necessary, will order you to do so.” 

“ Ah, indeed! this language is new to me. And 
what right have you to give orders to me?” 


PROSPER. 


193 

“ The right of a man who, despite everything, 
wishes you well. Do you know what you must 
do ? M. Lermine is expecting you to dinner. An 
unforeseen circumstance recalls you to Paris. Write 
this. I will give him the note. The Gap diligence 
passes this way in two hours. You must go. 
Once at Paris, you will find a pretext for breaking 
off, and your honor is saved.” 

“I will not go! ” cried Prosper, stamping on the 
ground. 

“ You shall go. It is I who say it,” repeated Di- 
dier, without losing his temper. 

“Upon my honor you are cool, very cool. It is 
easy to see that words cost you nothing. What! 
can you suppose that upon a threat so empty as 
this, I am going to renounce stupidly a splendid 
opening which promises me glory and profit ? 
Twelve hundred francs a month! Do you find 
such a chance under every stone! No! a thousand 
times no! I will not go. Madame Lermine’s de- 
larations of war do not terrify me. She will not 
say a word. Be easy. What! this woman, so care- 
ful of her reputation, just to satisfy her spite, go 
and throw herself deliberately at the mercy of her 
husband, whom she has never loved, whom she has 
pruelly humiliated, and who could henceforth kick 
her about as he pleased These theatrical strokes 
are all very well for talking. But when we come 
to action, nothing of the sort! I know her. She 
is a very good kind of woman, who was never made 
to leave the beaten track. Unluckily, she took it 
into her head that she was a poetess, that she had a 
vocation, the bump ; at once there grew under her 
shoulders two little wings, ohj very small, the 
wings of a little angel, and now and then she 
takes her flight, she rises from the earth, mounts, 
mounts, trembles for a moment in space, but 
soon she has enough of it, the little wings sup- 


PROSPER. 


194 

port her no longer, she descends again slowly, 
and now she is once more the simple good 
woman that she was before. J ust now you have 
surprised her in one of her fits of feverish romance 
and aerial existence ; at the present moment, you 
may believe me, she has regained earth, she has 
settled down. Adieu to all her bold flights! She 
will tell nothing.” 

“ Will you go, or will you not ? ” cried Didier. 

“ Bless us! Yes, I will go, but with you, and to 
Saint May. You have prevented me from finish- 
ing my article. It is all the same. Just give me 
time to put on my coat, and we will go together.” 

At these words Didier restrained himself no long- 
er. His anger burst forth, exploded like a bomb, 
and in a voice of thunder, which neither Bandoce 
nor he himself had ever heard, “You have neither 
heart nor honor,” exclaimed he ; “ and if Madame 
Lermine keeps silence, it is I who will speak, for I 
will not make myself an accomplice in an act of 
treacheiy, or lend a hand to your degradation ; ” 
and turning his back on him, in three bounds he 
reached the street. This violent apostrophe had 
petrified Prosper. Who was this Didier who had 
just spoken to him in such a tone ? He had never 
suspected the existence of such a personage. As- 
soon as he had recovered from his stupor, he set 
out in pursuit of his brother, but he could not over- 
take him. Didier had mounted his horse again, 
and was rushing off at full speed. 


PROSPER. 


195 


CHAPTER XX. 

Didier found M. Lermine near the spring, con- 
versing with a physician from Remuzat, who had 
come to make a little tour in the neighborhood. 
He was detailing to him, at full length, all the in- 
cidents of his stomach, his sufferings, his sudden 
cure. The doctor, who was somewhat of a wag, 
slyly insinuated that there might be something of 
the miraculous in this affair, and that no one who is 
not in a state of grace ever finds in the waters of 
Saint May a fragrance as of violets. M. Lermine 
was the most sociable of men; he wanted to keep 
the doctor to dinner, but the latter excused himself, 
answering that he had still two patients to visit, 
and that they must not expect him before the des- 
sert. When he had gone, the good man , showing 
Didier an unharnessed post-chaise, informed him 
with a perplexed air that Madame Lermine had 
just arrived. This journey, which he treated as an 
escapade , puzzled him greatly. What had brought 
the queen to a country inn ? There was great diffi- 
culty in finding lodging. This person, so delicate, 
so fastidious, had consented to occupy a cubby- 
hole, which, on ordinary occasions, she would have 
thought unfit for her maid. Didier replied, smiling, 
that after Austerlitz the Emperor Francis had 
come to the conqueror in his camp to beg peace 
from him. At this reply, which charmed him, M. 
Lermine pressed tenderly the hand of his dear 
de Peyrols. 

“ And your mysterious message,” said he. 
“ What important affair can recall M. Randoce 
to Paris? Do you imagine I shall release my prey 
so easily? This youth belongs to me. It is you 
who presented him to me. We are to sign our 


PROSPER. 


196 

agreement at the very first day possible, and j 
cannot so soon give him a holiday.” 

Didier answered vaguely, that business was bus- 
iness, but that doubtless Prosper would not go 
without giving an account of himself. “ My horse 
is exhausted,” added he, “ and I see myself forced 
to postpone my departure until to-morrow. I shall 
make one of your party this evening, and if Ran- 
doce plays you false, I shall try to console you.” 
Thereupon, whilst M. Lermine continued to prome- 
nade upon the open square, his reveries and his 
anxieties, Didier himself took his horse to the 
stable; then slipping into the inn, he found himself 
face to face with the lady’s maid who was watching 
for his arrival, and who took him directly to her mis- 
tress. One glance sufficed to convince him that 
his brother was mistaken. Madame Lermine had 
neither reconsidered her projects, nor had she be- 
come calm. She still persisted in her great re- 
solve. Small as might be its wings, the bird still 
held its course through the air, nor thought of set- 
tling down for an instant. “Well?” she said to 
Didier, looking at him with an excited expres- 
sion. 

“ Madame, I ask you, as a favor, to confide the 
care of your interests to me. Let me act for you. 
I promise — ” 

“ I ask no promises of you,” she interrupted 
haughtily. “I ask of you a simple reply. You 
have seen M. Randoce: you have given him my 
message. I know that he is expected here this 
evening. Will he have the effrontery to come ? ” 

“ I hope not, Madame ; but in any event — ” 

“ That’s enough,” said she. “ I am now in- 
structed. I know what remains for me to do.” 

Didier urged everything he could think of to 
calm her, representing to her the fatal consequences 
of a discovery: he asked only for a little time, and 


PROSPER. 


19 7 

promised to make Prosper hear reason; he knew 
him, he was sure of what he was about, he would 
answer for the event. To all he could say, Madame 
Lermine, shaking her head, refused to listen; his 
reasoning, his entreaties, had no power to reach this 
deeply wounded soul. As he still persevered, she 
dismissed him with a lofty gesture worthy of Her- 
mione or Roxana. 

Didier withdrew from her presence wholly exas- 
perated, not knowing what to try next. One re- 
source only was left to him ; he preserved a feeble 
hope that Prosper might have made salutary reflec- 
tions, and that, if he had not left for Gap, at least 
he would not come to Saint May. 

As he left the inn, M. Lermine and he crossed 
each other on the threshold. The good man was 
going, to inquire after his wife. An instant later he 
reappeared, saying that Madame Lermine, worn out 
with fatigue, could not receive him. Seven o’clock 
struck, Prosper came not. M. Lermine poured 
out his complaints to Didier, whom he tried to 
make responsible for his disappointment ; he talked 
like a child whose plaything is taken from him. 
Just as he was at the height of his lamentation, he 
clapped his hands. “Ah ! there he is,” he ex- 
claimed, and Didier perceived Prosper, who ad- 
vanced with an all-conquering air, carrying his 
head high, a rose in his button-hole, a song on his 
lips. He bowed gracefully to M. Lermine, and 
while replying to his reproaches, looked several 
times at Didier with a haughty and defiant expres- 
sion. 

The landlord came to tell them that dinner was 
served. They sat down to table. During the 
whole repast, Prosper talked in an animated tone ; 
never had he shown more ease in all his movements, 
more repose in his manner. M. Lermine was 
somewhat absent ; he was at times sunk in reverie ; 


PROSPER. 


198 

the mystery of his wife’s journey irritated his curi- 
osity ; he was longing to find out the meaning of it. 

As to the third guest, half-suffocated by his in- 
dignation, he preserved a sombre silence, holding 
counsel with himself gloomy and terrible as the 
statue of the Gommendatore , but not, like him, 
holding the thunder at his command. 

The table had just been cleared, and M. Ler- 
mine, coming out of his reverie, was beginning to 
talk business with M. Randoce, when the door 
opened, and Madame Lermine entered. At once 
there was a profound silence ; all divined that 
something was about to happen. The countenance 
of the queen wore a frightful expression ; the fixed- 
ness of her features, the solemn deliberation of her 
step, everything seemed to show that she had taken 
a grave and irrevocable resolution. Didier felt that 
now the storm could not be averted ; he crossed his 
arms and awaited the event. 

M. Lermine agitated, he knew not why, drew 
forward a chair for his wife, and politely inquired 
after her health. Prosper rose to salute her, and 
bowed to her with ceremonious politeness. His de- 
meanor betrayed no confusion, but his face had sud- 
denly lengthened ; its lines had become harder, the 
angles more sharp ; this was always the way with 
him in his bad moments. 

Madame Lermine seated herself. She seemed to 
be gathering breath ; perhaps, before taking the 
perilous leap, she was measuring the depth of the 
abyss. Her complexion looked wan, the pupils of 
her eyes were contracted ; from time to time a 
feverish flush overspread her pale cheeks, which 
were suddenly covered with a burning red. M. 
Lermine observed her with increasing disquiet. 
He grew alarmed at her silence, as sailors are terri- 
fied at those calms which hatch tempests in their 
bosoms. 


PROSPER. 


199 


Didier leaned over to his brother, and whispered 
in his ear “Go!” Prosper answered only by an 
imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. At the same 
moment Madame Lermine, turning to her husband, 
said slowly, ancl with a tone which gave emphasis 
to each syllable: 

“ You wrote to me that you were on the point of 
signing an agreement with M. Randoce. I have 
come from Paris expressly to tell you that this must 
not be;” and she repeated, “must not be — must not 
be.” 

“ And why so, my dear Theresa?” asked he, try- 
ing to smile. 

She was already moving her lips to answer, when 
her eyes met the burning glance of Prosper, who 
was looking fixedly at her. He seemed like a 
tamer of wild beasts, trying to subjugate by the 
magnetic influence of his eye a hyena in a state of 
revolt, who was threatening to throw herself up- 
on him. Madame Lermine could not sustain the 
assault of this look, and turned away her head as if 
vanquished; but gathering courage once more, she 
again set her eyes toward Prosper, and a smile of 
contempt hovered on her lips. The conqueror felt 
his power escaping ; it was his turn to tremble. 

The duel of these two looks and two wills terrified 
the good man , and he had already divined every- 
thing ; when Madame Lermine, extending her arm 
toward Prosper, murmured in a dry, husky voice: 

“ This man has been my lover.” 

M. Lermine started suddenly, as though moved 
by a spring ; he had the haggard look of a som- 
nambulist. The table, the lights, the walls, the 
whole room seemed to be turning round him. In 
this great tumult of mind, one sole idea came 
to him, that which the dying Caesar had ex- 
pressed in his famous speech, “ Thou too, Brutus! ” 
He turned towards Didier, and said, “I believed 


200 


PROSPER. 


you to be a gentleman, and my friend. I had placed 
my trust well ! ” 

Some one had just entered and heard these words. 
It was the physician of R6muzat, who, having fin- 
ished his round of visits, had hastened, according to 
promise, to come and empty a bottle, and have a 
little chat with his new acquaintance. He had not 
expected the strange scene which met his gaze. 
Madame Lermine was at the end of her strength 
and her romanticism ; her imagination had suddenly 
sobered; the crisis foreseen by Prosper came, but 
later than he had hoped. Nature triumphing over 
her state of exaltation, the poor woman felt herself 
giving way; her face changed ; she seized her hus- 
band’s arm tightly, as a shipwrecked man grasps a 
plank, and uttering a cry of despair : 

“Henry,” she said, “I have poisoned myself; 
save me! and I will endure anything you please.” 

M. Lermine turned a distracted look upon the 
physician, who was approaching him, and recogniz- 
ing him, cried out: 

“Doctor, save my wife! ” 

The doctor was built like a Hercules ; he 
snatched up Mme. Lermine in his arms, and ran out 
of the room with her, followed by the husband, 
who, stumbling and entangling himself in all the 
tables and chairs, found great difficulty in finding 
his way. Didier remained alone. Prosper had 
disappeared as if by magic. Didier looked every- 
where for him ; he made the tour of the house, of 
the square, without finding him ; he consoled him- 
self easily for this ; he had nothing more to say to 
him. The measure was filled up, and he promised 
himself to forget that Randoce was his brother. 
He re-entered the inn where reigned the greatest 
commotion ; every one was in movement ; people 
were going and coming, opening and shutting 
doors ; everywhere the noise of steps, of voices, 


PROSPER. 


201 


mysterious whisperings, now and then overtopped 
by sharp cries. Didier approached a servant-gill, 
who was warming some linen, and asked how 
things were going on. She answered sharply, 
that the lady was dying. By her looks, you might 
have sworn that she was placing this death to his 
account. Didier withdrew into the dining-room, 
and walked up and down like a soul in torment. 
He was far from looking upon himself in the light of 
a poisoner, but he could not deny that he had had 
some share in this tragical adventure. M. Lermine 
had placed confidence in his guarantee; the flag had 
covered the merchandise. The reproaches of the 
good man were bitter to him — we all know the 
history of that princess who could not sleep a whole 
night, because three little peas had been slipped 
under her mattress. This proved, says the legend, 
that she was a real princess. By this reckoning, 
Didier was a true prince; his sense of honor was 
infinitely delicate. The feeling of having given 
some plausibility to degrading inferences, caused 
him an unendurable discomfort. He had compro- 
mised himself, his truth was suspected. Accord- 
ingly, he resolved not to leave Saint May without 
seeing M. Lermine once more, and forcing him to 
listen to his explanations. Meanwhile, quiet was 
gradually re-established in the household. The 
going and coming had ceased, the doors no longer 
slammed. The doctor came into the dining-room 
wiping his forehead ; he greatly needed some re- 
freshment. 

“ Everything is going well,” said he. “ Our 
adorable fury is safe. She had taken morphine, 
but the dose was not sufficient. I think the good 
woman only wished to kill herself a little ; just 
enough to know what it is, and to touch her hus- 
band’s heart. As soon as she found herself slip- 
ping down the fatal slope which leads to Charon’s 


202 


PROSPER. 


bark, she held on to life. Luckily for her, we had 
an emetic at hand. She cried to me at the top of 
her voice: ‘Doctor, I don’t wish to die!’ I was 
ready to believe her, by Jove! Some infusions of 
coffee, some repose, and all is right again. Let us 
say no more about it.” 

Didier thanked the doctor for his good news. 

“Ah, Signor Don Juan, you have got off for 
your fright,” answered the latter. “ After all, you 
are excusable.” And clicking with his tongue, 
“ Really this woman has some remains of beauty, 
but the young men of the present day are entirely 
without prudence ; they allow themselves to be 
caught.” 

Didier did not take the trouble to set him right. 
He showed only his desire, to obtain an audience of 
M. Lermine. 

“ Oh, as to that, it will be difficult,” answered 
the doctor. “ The worthy man seems very angry 
with you. Leave him alone ; he is busy reciting 
his rosary.” 

Didier insisted. The doctor left the room, and 
returned an instant afterward, reporting that M. 
Lermine had dismissed him abruptly, and that he 
absolutely refused to see Didier. 

“ This worthy old fellow seems to me as obsti- 
nate as a mule,” added the doctor. “ I defy you 
to make him change his resolution. Don’t do any- 
thing more. Explanations have never been known 
to explain anything.” 

But Didier did not lose courage ; procuring ink 
and paper, he hastily wrote a note, which he had 
carried by a servant to M. Lermine. Twenty min- 
utes afterwards his note was brought back unop- 
ened ; it was accompanied by these lines traced in 
pencil : 

“ I am firmly resolved, sir, not to see you again. 
I have been much in the wrong to fancy that an 


PROSPER. 


203 


unbeliever could be a safe man, and that worldly 
rules can take the place of real principle. This is 
an error of which you have cured me ; I shall not 
fall into it again. Besides, what have you to tell 
me ? I know everything. You have imprudently 
lent your virtuous friend a considerable sum; in 
the hope of recovering what you had advanced, you 
tried to procure for him a lucrative employment. 
This calculation is very natural; when a man de- 
sires to regain possession of his money, he does not 
look too closely into little things. All is not lost; 
seek well; you will find some other good place for 
this Chevalier (P Industrie. No one is always un- 
lucky; but it seems to me, that the most simple 
ideas of propriety forbid your staying longer in this 
house. Your persevering in doing so is a bravado 
in the worst taste, since you have not to fear my 
demanding satisfaction of you.” 

Didier tore up this answer angrily, and now 
thought only how he should get away. It hap- 
pened that, some muleteers having arrived that 
evening, and finding no place to lodge their beasts, 
his horse had been taken away to the village. In 
his impatience, he started to look for it himself ; 
but had great difficulty in finding the house 
which had been indicated to him. Twice he 
made the tour of the village, knocking at every 
door, obtaining only vague replies, and causing all 
the people whom he was waking up to grumble. 
These annoyances, superadded to all the rest, 
wrought him to a pitch of frenzy; he was furiously 
angry, and had to put great force upon himself not 
to quarrel with every one. 

The sun had been up for an hour when he was 
at last able to set out. As he passed again the inn- 
doors, he cursed a thousand times Saint May and 
its fountain, whose peaceful and perpetual murmur 
seemed to be insulting his vexation. This fountain 


204 


PROSPER. 


was the primary cause of everything; and, despite 
the proverb, he could swear, without fear of bely- 
ing himself, that he would drink no more of its 
waters. Then he set spurs to his horse, who was 
yet weary from the long journey of the day before. 
He had some difficulty in making him trot; it was 
written that Saint May should be to the end a 
fatal place, and that he should not leave it without 
hindrance. What was his astonishment when he 
descried, two steps in front of him, Prosper, who, 
seated on a large stone, seemed to be waiting for 
him, and placed himself in the middle of the road 
to bar his passage. Foreseeing an attempt at jus- 
tification, the idea of which filled him with uncon- 
querable disgust, Didier tried to urge his horse to a 
full gallop, but the provoking animal resisted, re- 
fused to mend its pace, and, at the moment he 
reached Prosper, as the latter was just stretching 
out his arm, and about to seize the bridle, stopped 
of himself, finding this a good opportunity for mak- 
ing a halt. 

The two brothers measured each other with their 
eyes for some seconds. Prosper’s were bloodshot, 
he looked like a corpse come to life. Finally, he 
broke silence, in an abrupt tone : 

“ Yesterday you insulted me ; you owe me satis- 
faction, which you will not refuse me.” 

Didier continued to look at him without answer- 
ing. He was overcome with astonishment, not 
having foreseen such a possibility. 

“ I have not lost time,” said Prosper; “ at Remuzat 
I have dug out two sub-officers, who consent to 
serve as witnesses. The day, the hour, the place, 
the weapons, I leave everything to your choice. 
You will agree that nothing could be more accom- 
modating.” 

Didier uttered a sigh. “ I will not fight,” he 


PROSPER. 


205 

quietly answered, and urged forward his horse, but 
Prosper held him by the bridle. 

“ Can you think of such a thing ? ” cried he in 
a strident voice. “ Is it a gentleman that speaks ? ” 

“ I will not fight,” repeated Didier, trying to 
conceal the violence of the effort he was making. 

“ I shall know how to force you to do so ” — and 
at these words, Prosper hastily drew off one of his 
gloves, and threw it in his face. Didier let one cry 
escape ; he became pale as death. His fingers 
closed convulsively around the loaded handle of 
his whip, which he raised over Randoce’s head, but 
his arm remained suspended in the air as though 
arrested by an invisible hand. Distracted, shudder- 
ing, he seemed like one struggling against a super- 
human power, which he felt striving with some- 
thing stronger than his will. The tragical and 
mysterious combat going on within him, altered 
his countenance, and the expression it bore was so 
strange that Prosper, struck by it, drew back to 
the edge of the road. What we do not understand 
frightens us. Leaning towards his brother, Didier 
never turned his eyes away from him ; suddenly, 
sitting erect once more, he threw his whip with one 
jerk into the top of a tree where it was caught; 
then he resumed his journey without Prosper’s 
trying to follow or recall him. 

Two hours later, he reached Nyons. The first 
thing he did on re-entering the Guard was to take 
a bath, after which he sought in his mind what 
diversion he could find for his dark thoughts, what 
antidote against the remembrances which besieged 
him, against the disgust and bitterness which 
swelled his heart. He ascended to his room, tried 
to amuse himself with his favorite authors, Shake- 
speare and Montaigne ; but the remedy was power- 
less, he was incapable of attention, his eyes glided 
over the paper with no power to fix themselves on 


20 6 


PROSPER. 


it. The lines trembled, mingled together, and his 
beloved pages remained mute. 

Another expedient suddenly presented itself to 
him. He took his hat, went off like a shot, walked 
at a racing gait towards the Three Plane Trees. 
When he arrived Madame d’Azado was walking in 
her garden, passing her flower-beds in review. She 
recognized his step, turned her head, and fixed 
upon him her great limpid eyes. This look had 
upon Didier the effect, of a delicious dew, pene- 
trating him at every pore, and cooling his blood ; 
for a few moments he enjoyed a profound calmness 
and felt himself delivered from all his recollections. 
Lucile knew that he had gone to Saint May ; in 
small towns news travels fast ; but by the way in 
which he accosted her, she might have thought he 
was returning from China, it really seemed as if 
she had not seen him for a year. She was sur- 
prised, and almost frightened at the unusual 
vivacity of his manner, the fire of his looks, the 
warmth which animated his language. She had 
learned to be on her guard against the imagination 
of her cousin; instructed by experience she dreaded 
the sudden change of wind. The thicket was but 
two steps off — she judged it more fitting to turn in 
another direction, and gently led Didier back to 
the house. Had she put but a single question to 
him he would have told her all; his secret hovered 
on his lips, ready to escape him; he was under the 
spell of that look which had suddenly lulled his 
anger; he would have liked to associate Lucile with 
his troubles, to lay them at her feet ; it seemed to 
him that, at that moment, a grief shared with her 
would be almost happiness. Lucile had no suspicion 
of what was passing in his mind; she supposed 
that, by an unforeseen return of his illusion, Didier 
imagined himself to have found his sylph once 
more. She was mistaken; it was the woman to 


PROSPER . 


207 


whom he was turning, her heart which revealed 
itself through the sweetness of her eyes. In vain 
did he try to excite her curiosity, to snatch one 
question from her. She spoke to him only of her 
garden — the arrangement of which she wished to 
change. What must she sow here, plant there ? A 
cypress looked too gloomy, should it he cut down ? 
Would it he well to set the plane trees farther 
apart ? Didier felt his first pleasurable sensations 
gradually melting away; a violent annoyance took 
possession of him; he assumed an icy tone and 
look, and soon went away. “ Women ! women ! ” 
murmured he as he went. “ The hest of them are 
incapable of friendship.” 


PART FOUR. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“What’s the matter with you? what are you 
thinking of? May I know what is trotting 
through your brain ? Since a fortnight you are an- 
other man. To the deuce with your absent ways ! 
You don’t hear what I am saying to you, your look 
is lost in space; I could swear that you are con- 
versing with spirits. And, look now, I am con- 
vinced you have not heard one word of the little 
story I have just had the honor of narrating to 
you.” Thus spoke M. Patru one evening to Didier. 

“You slander me,” answered the latter. “Must 
I repeat to you, word for word, the pathetic recital 
you have just made me? You have been to see 
Mme. d’Azado; you have found her in tears, you 
questioned her; she has honored you with her con- 
fidence. Her mother had made an odious scene 
wdth her, overwhelmed her with those gratuitous 
insults which an angry woman’s imagination helps 
her to. You have been so good as to inform me 
that, on that day, Madame d’Azado was dressed in 
black silk, relieved by scarlet bows. Permit me to 
represent to you that these details have nothing to 
do with the business in hand, and that you are 
wrong in taking example by contemporary novel- 
ists, who are accused of too much description. 
Heavens ! what does your long story prove ? That 
you are the confidant of Madame d’Azado, while 
I am not. To each one his duties; she tells you 
her troubles, she consults me about her garden. 


PROSPER. 


209 

You ease her heart. I spread out her plane trees. 
After all, I know people more perplexed than she. 
Her mother wishes absolutely to go to Paris. Why 
not let her loose ? ” 

“ That proves how well you listened to me. I 
have taken the trouble to explain to you that Mme. 
Brehanne no longer cares about Paris ; this 
woman is subject to deviations ; she now burns to 
return to Peru, she sighs after Lima. It appears 
that this is a city where one may be amused, and 
of which she has preserved the pleasantest memo- 
ries. I speak not of those she has left there. For 
certain women, nothing comes up to those half- 
regulated social conditions, which permit the most 
charming laisser-aller. In France, everything is 
allowed, but each thing has its name. At Peru the 
vocabulary is not formed; whatever the bag may be, 
there is no label put upon it. In short, Mme. Brehanne 
received, the other day, from some male or female 
Peruvian (I know not which), a long missive, 
which made her shed torrents of tears. Just like 
an expatriated Swiss, hearing the Hanz des Vaches 
sung. It was in this fine fit of homesickness, that 
she. made a scene with your cousin, treating her as 
though she were a barbarous and unnatural daugh- 
ter.” 

“ Paris or Lima, let Mme. Brehanne go where 
she will, I see nothing out of the way in it.” 

“ Nor I either. Only, before going, she required 
that her daughter should enable her to make some 
figure out there, and her daughter knows too well 
what use this crazy woman would make of her 
liberty. Your cousin is to be pitied. The conduct 
of her mother was the cause of her marrying at 
seventeen an old fellow with a bee in his bonnet; 
she would have married the devil himself ; the 
paternal mansion was no longer endurable. And 
now she has this old coquette of a mother on her 


210 


PROSPER. 


hands, whom age does not quiet down, and who 
treats her as an unnatural daughter, because she 
permits herself to impose some restraint upon 
mamma’s aspirations. As I was saying to you, 
then, in order to divert her amiable ward from her 
plans, your cousin proposes to take her on a 
journey. Six weeks at Paris ; on their return, the 
Rhine and Switzerland. Mme. Brehanne had to 
be urged a long time ; finally she has deigned to 
consent: this is a favor she is willing to grant her 
daughter. I swear to you on my parchments, that 
if this woman belonged to me, I would strangle 
her with these hands.” 

“You have a very quick temper, Monsieur Pa- 
tru.” 

“ Well, what would you have ? The men of my 
generation feel and speak strongly. You young 
men of the present day let Ifs and Buts freeze 
your heart, and you have put Distinguo in the 
place of passion — a race of Chinese shadows, 
regular figures on screens ! ” 

“ Come, come, Mr. Notary, gently, please ! Tell 
me what is the meaning of this outburst.” 

“ I am frankly an egotist,” replied M. Patru, “ I 
care for nobody ; that is well known ; but I have 
a tiresome imagination, which is ever troubling 
me. I, the old notary, with one foot in the grave 
already, cannot remember without emotion the 
tears I saw your cousin shed. Yes, this remem- 
brance troubles my sleep and my digestion. I be- 
hold again the whole scene — this beautiful young 
wxunan leaning languidly on the arm of her chair, 
her great humid eyes, her black silk dress — ” 

“ Relieved with red bows,” interrupted Didier. 
M. Patru grew angry. 

“By the Lord, your indifference vexes me ! 
How old are you ? Of what infusible metal aie you 


PROSPER. 


21 1 


composed ? She is as fair as the day, and the idea 
of consoling her never occurs to you.” 

“ My cousin is not at all in sympathy with me,” 
said Didier, dryly. “ She holds me at a distance, 
and I think there is no way in which I can please 
her so well as by never interfering in her affairs.” 

M. Patru shrugged his shoulders, and took two 
or three turns through the room ; then stopping be- 
fore Didier, “ Cannot one at least know, Mr. Good- 
behavior, what business took you to Saint May ? ” 

“ I have already told you that I went to see a 
good old gentleman, an acquaintance of mine, and 
that he gave me some delicious water to drink, 
with the fragrance of violets in it.” 

“ Oh, very good! When you are not listening 
to anything that is said to you, then you are 
dreaming of this good man ! all those great sighs 
you heave so often are addressed to him ! ” 

“ You have always reproached me with my want 
of gayety.” 

“ Three weeks ago you wore a very listless air ; 
to-day you look sad ; that is a very different thing. 
Do you wish to know what is said ? There is a 
great deal of gossiping in this place, and the talk- 
ers say that you are in love. Don’t laugh ! Sa- 
hune possesses a landlady with a very glib tongue, 
and Remuzat a doctor who is of the most talkative 
kind. The landlady has spoken, the doctor has 
spoken, the echoes have answered. There is a 
whole history of a fair unknown, a rival, broken 
plates, fainting-fits. I spare you the rest.” 

“ Oh these small towns ! ” said Didier, shaking 
his head. “ And all this turmoil about a good old 
gentleman and a fountain ! ” Then, pointing with 
his finger at a terrestrial globe of metal, and mak- 
ing it turn on its pivot : “ There is the great con- 

soler,” said he to the notary. “ You reproach me 
with not knowing how to console my cousin. Do 


212 


PROSPER. 


you wish me to make her a gift of my globe, or of 
one like it ? ” 

“I understand you,” said M. Patru. “When 
you have anything which troubles you, you turn 
this little machine around ; all countries on earth, 
defile in a second under your eyes, with all the 
thousands of wretches they contain, and your 
particular grievance vanishes in this vortex. A 
good idea ! very sage philosophy ! Why be an- 
noyed at a scratch, when we reflect that at every 
hour of the day and night some Chinese man- 
darins are undergoing the torture of the Cangue, 
or some high Japanese functionaries preparing to 
rip open their bellies ? ” 

“It is not only that, Monsieur Patru. Just 
observe what figure France makes on -the sphere. 
The department of Drome is but a point. And 
Nyons — if you please ? — Nyons has no existence. 
When I look at this globe, I am so happy as to be 
no longer reminded of my existence.” 

“ Capital ! my dear boy,” said Monsieur Patru, 
gaining the door. “Your globe renders you one 
more service ; it saves you from answering all 
questions put to you. Well — take it easily ! You 
were born with a mocking spirit, and you will die 
with it — but take care of yourself ! Y ou are look- 
ing very ill. This is the last piece of advice I 
shall ever give you, for I solemnly swear that, 
from this day forward, you shall be as indifferent 
to me as the Grand Turk.” 

The next morning, Didier went to the Three 
Plane Trees. Mme. d’Azado said to him, “We 
are going away, cousin. Your example is conta- 
gious ; a desire to run about the world has seized 
us also.” As she spoke thus, she smiled. — If M. 
Patru had not told him anything, he might per- 
haps have been duped by this smile. It is only a 
high courage that can do without hope, and it is 


PROSPER. 


213 

in women that this kind of courage exists often- 
est. 

Madame d’Azado had come to Nyons, meaning 
to forget Peru, and begin life over again. Her 
wishes were modest, she asked for nothing but 
peace. Love, with its joys, had suddenly appeared 
to her ; illusion more brief than a flash of light- 
ning ! the mirage had vanished. Why could she 
not at least be at peace. She must spend her time 
and strength in a hopeless struggle against annoy- 
ing claims which, day by day, became more un- 
reasonable. The journey she was proposing to 
make caused her some anxieties beforehand. 
Madame Brehanne was in a better humor, but she 
was a difficult person to take care of. Peregrina- 
tions were pleasing to her uneasy imagination, first, 
because she liked change of place, and then, be- 
cause she was ever speculating on future contin- 
gencies. She foresaw meetings, adventures, 
imagined that in crossing the vestibule of a hotel 
or in a railway station, she should suddenly behold 
the man of her dreams start up before her eyes. 
Once started, she was always in a state of ex- 
pectation, on the look-out for opportunities, 
trembling lest they should escape. She had, said 
M. Patru, eyes which beat the roll-call. When she 
travelled, the drum was always going, and Madame 
d’Azado was obliged to occupy herself incessantly 
in keeping her in check, in repairing the effects of 
her indiscretions, in putting a damper on her 
tambourine. 

Didier felt a growing sympathy for his cousin ; 
he was struck with the conformity in their situa- 
tions ; destiny having given each a lamb to feed, 
both were equally incommoded with the incon- 
venient animal of which they had taken charge. 
There was, however, this difference between them, 
that he thought he had finished with his brother, 


214 


PROSPER. 


and that Madame d’Azado had taken an indefinite 
lease of her mother. As Lucile did not lay aside 
her reserve, he pretended to believe in her gayety, 
and that she was only taking a pleasure-trip to 
Paris. As she proposed to visit, on her return, 
the borders of the Rhine, and Switzerland, and as 
he had made this journey, he traced out her route 
for her, and recommended those sites which he had 
most admired. Mme. Brehanne listened to their 
conversation without putting in a word ; she had 
decided that Didier was incapable of comprehend- 
ing her ; but all the names of castles which he 
pronounced made her heart beat, and engraved 
themselves in her memory. Would it be at Gut- 
enfels or at Rheinfels that she should meet her 
deliverer ? 

When Didier rose to go, Mme. d’Azado said to 
him : “ I have a favor to ask of you. You will do 
me a kindness if you will come once or twice dur- 
ing our absence and give a glance at what goes on 
here. I should be glad to find everything in good 
condition on my return.” 

“What a strange commission to give your 
cousin ! ” said Mme. Brehanne. “He has quite 
different matters in his head.” 

“ What matters, madame ? ” said Didier. “ I 
know no man less occupied than I.” 

“We must always suspect still waters,” answered 
she. “ Tongues are plenty in this part of the 
country, and we have ears.” At these words she left 
the room, laughing as she went. 

Didier turned towards his cousin, who was look- 
ing at him. “ I do not know what Mme. Brehanne 
means,” said he ; “ but whatever may have been 
told you, I hope you believe nothing of it.” 

“What matters it to you? You are as in- 
different to criticism as to praise.” 

“You are perhaps the only person to whose 


PROSPER. 


215 

opinion I am not indifferent,” answered he with 
some animation. 

She appeared to hesitate a moment, and then 
said to him : “My very sincere opinion is, that 
you understand, better than any one, everything 
that appertains to taste, and that if you deign to 
take some interest in my flower-beds, I shall be 
glad to see them again in six weeks.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

On his return, Didier took his way through the 
arcades. As he passed by the Cafe du Commerce , 
the open door of which was concealed by a serge 
curtain, he heard some words pronounced which 
caused him to stop. “ I saw him, saw him with 
my own eyes,” said one of the habitues seated near 
the threshold. “It is the same young man who 
hired a horse at the Hotel du Louvre , and who 
went off full gallop to Saint May. He went up 
this morning to the Deves. I was in my garden 
and saw him pass. He looked like a man who 
meditated some stroke of mischief. Was it a piece 
of vengeance, a suicide, or what ? It would be a 
good thing to warn M. de Peyrols, so that he be 
on his guard ; but your Didier is an unapproach- 
able man who keeps off question and advice. Ho 
one is at ease with him, unless it be a beggar.” 

Didier entered the room, where instantly there 
fell a great silence. In vain did he turn his eyes 
in all directions, as though to challenge an expla- 
nation ; nobody said a word. He sat down at a 
table, took a newspaper. While he was reading, 
or pretending to read, he was the focus of every 


21 6 


PROSPER. 


eye. Each of the spectators made his comments ; 
one observed that Didier’s complexion was dis- 
turbed, his eyes bloodshot ; another that he was 
abrupt in his movements, a third that the tie of his 
cravat was less elegant than formerly. All this 
proved that there was something going on, or that 
something had happened. What ? No one knew. 
There were several versions of the adventure of 
Saint May, such a fine subject for controversy! 

Didier put down his newspaper and again looked 
at the curious persons who were watching him. 
They turned away their heads, and began to talk 
about their little affairs. He went out, and took 
the road to the Dev&s. This is the name given to a 
rocky eminence against which Nyons leans, and 
whose bold summit is crowned by a chapel. Di- 
dier ascended to the top, beating the bushes, looking 
into the ravines whose silence seemed to tell a his- 
tory. The Deves is a place most propitious to 
suicide ; it terminates in a narrow platform 
flanked by perpendicular rocks. Arriving at the 
platform, Didier walked all round it. He perceived 
only a wood-cutter, and a little girl tending goats: 
neither of these had seen the man he sought. 

He sat down on a heap of stones, his face turned 
towards the valley. He questioned his conscience. 
If any one had come to tell him at this moment 
that his brother had killed himself, would he have 
nothing to reproach himself with ? He was not 
easy on this subject. Truth is the most sacred of 
debts. Why had he refused it to Randoce ? He 
ought to have accosted him with this word: “ I am 
your brother ! ” Perfect sincerity is the best of all 
policy; the most rebellious hearts find it hard to 
resist. Thanks to his diplomacy, Prosper had seen 
in him only a man giving himself airs of impor- 
tance, and arrogating to himself the privilege of 
giving him advice, or else a blockhead who stupidly 


PROSPER. 


217 

cast himself into his nets. Airs of importance are 
odious, foolish simplicity is liable to be mercilessly 
pillaged. He had given full play to his brother’s 
want of conscience, and full swing to his ingrati- 
tude. 

What astonished him most, was that he found 
himself reasoning coolly on the conduct of Ran- 
doce. His anger and contempt had all vanished ; 
violent passions were repugnant to his nature ; 
after a brief tumult of feeling, his soul had fallen 
back into its customary state of inertia. There 
had only remained in him a brooding melancholy, 
the annoyance of having twice failed in a mission 
which he had at heart, the bitter sentiment of his 
powerlessness, his bad management, showing the 
apprentice who will never become a master work- 
man; but like snow melting in the sun, his anger 
had vanished. There was in his heart an invisible 
outlet, through which everything escaped ; affec- 
tion, hatreds, griefs, and joys; this faithless heart 
could retain nothing. Life was irksome to it, it 
breathed only in a void. At this moment, a red- 
dish cloud had stopped in the middle of the sky, 
and under the influence of an ardent summer’s sun, 
it seemed to dissolve by degrees in the air. Didier 
beheld the opaque mass narrowing and dispersing 
from one moment to another, as though devoured 
by the light; soon it was only a flake, the flake 
became a spot, the spot disappeared. He recog- 
nized in this vanishing cloud the image of his feel- 
ings: they were evaporating on the spot, and his 
inner tempests were scattered, as if by enchant- 
ment, without the thunder grumbling, or the light- 
ning flashing through the darkness. 

But now Didier ceased to reason; anxiety seized 
upon him. He made the tour of the platform a 
second time. On the way, he perceived on the 
ground near a tuft of lavender a paper, which he 
10 


218 


PROSPER. 


picked up : the paper was covered with a scrawl in 
pencil, and Didier needed but one glance to recog- 
nize the writing of his brother. One side of the 
leaf bore only these words placed one above the 
other: “death, breath , eloquence , immense .” Sure 
of his memory, Prosper when composing his verses 
usually wrote down only the rhymes. On the back 
could be read: “Towards the horizon, in the direc- 
tion of the Rhone, clouds of pearly gray, tinted, 
with rose-color, species Cumulus. To place these 
clouds in Scene III. .of Act Second. To inquire 
the name of a large bird spotted white, which flies 
in abrupt jerks; this denizen of the air may be of 
use. To put him in my commonplace book. To 
bring the Son of Faust to the summit of the 
Deves. He wishes to kill himself, takes in his 
hands leaves of lavender, smells them. (Lavender 
has slender stalks, lance-shaped leaves, the terminal 
sheaf furnished with sharp leaflets.) A hermit 
comes out of the chapel. Dialogue very declama- 
tory, rhymes rich, style truculent, frank, contrasting 
with the rainbow, caressing, silky, satiny style of 
the boudoir scene immediately preceding it. The 
hermit is an old dotard, a sort of Lermine, a mind 
riding its hobby of fiddle-faddles. An ironical 
picture of human life; irony, plenty of irony, and 
still more bold sketching. In short, the hermit un- 
dertakes to console the Son of Faust, and the lat- 
ter infects him with his doubts; the physician 
takes the malady of his patient, who gets better 
for it. A very Byronic scene. Conclusion — the 
Son of Faust does not kill himself.” 

“ I thought as much,” said Didier to himself as 
he folded the leaf, and put it in his pocket. He 
was wholly reassured. Randoce had gone to seek 
on the Deves only the dream of suicide. He had 
found over and above pearl-gray clouds and a big 


PROSPER. 


219 

bird spotted with white; he had been wonderfully 
lucky. 

Didier set out on his return. At each turn in the 
path, he expected his brother to appear before him, 
and his heart beat violently. He feared lest his 
anger might revive on seeing him again; he had 
not had time to prepare for this meeting. What 
line of conduct ought he to pursue ? He took 
counsel with his reason, but his reason was silent; 
whatever the event, it must find him unprepared. 
To calm himself, he went over his favorite maxims. 
“ It is as absurd to be angry with men, as with things. 
Things resist us, weary and oppress us, they cannot 
olf end us, they do not see us. Human wills are forces 
of nature, brutal and blind. We must contend 
against them without passion, as we contend against 
water and fire. It is well to believe in one’s own 
liberty, it is still more useful not to believe in that 
of others; our inward peace all hangs upon this. 
Doubtless Prosper is culpable, but how many 
guilty persons are there not, whom opinion spares, 
how many stains, which the world respects, infam- 
ies on which fortune smiles ! Let us condemn no 
one; Justice belongs not to this world, and it is 
quite enough that misfortune should take upon it- 
self to judge us.” 

Didier returned to the Guard without having 
perceived his brother near or far; he passed the 
whole evening in a state of extreme agitation. 
Suspense had always to him been more unendura- 
ble than misfortune. No doubt remained that 
Prosper was at Nyons, the paper found on the 
Dev6s proved it. What Were his projects ? Di- 
dier lost himself in conjectures, he reasoned on the 
case like a mathematician, to find the solution 
of the problem, but there was no starting-point 
from which to proceed. If human wills are, as he 
thought, natural forces, it is nevertheless certain 


220 


PROSPER, 


that they cannot he calculated upon, like the action 
of a machine. Strange machines which the least 
shock disturbs, which themselves seek their secret 
without power to find it, and are secure of nothing 
save surprises ! 

Towards midnight as Didier was moving rest- 
lessly about the room, he stopped suddenly, he had 
just heard a lament, a groan. He opened his win- 
dow; the moon was shining: he could see nothing 
save the sleeping shadows of the almond trees, 
and a shimmer of silvery light on the sheet of 
water. He reclosed the window, thinking there 
must be a ringing in his ears and in his brain; but 
an instant afterwards he heard a noise of footsteps, 
then a second groan. He looked out once more ; 
a man was standing at the foot of the wall. 
“Who are you ? What do you want ? ” cried Di- 
dier. 

No reply. Not wishing to awaken any one, he 
descended to the terrace by some side steps, a 
steep spiral stairway. The shadow had disap- 
peared. He set about searching for it, made the 
tour of the garden, went as far as the arbor which 
terminated it in the direction of the valley. There 
he found the gate open. A man stood there, lean- 
ing against the wall, his arms crossed, his head 
bare, and this man was Randoce. 

Didier felt a sudden lassitude come over him ; 
he compared himself to an actor who is called to 
make his reappearance on the stage; his part is an 
unpleasant one, he has played the first scenes with- 
out success, and feels himself at the end of his 
strength. “Now begins the third act,” thought 
Didier. “ The interval between the acts has been 
too brief, I have not had time to breathe.” 

He made up his mind, approached Prosper, 
and said: “ You have come here to look for me. 
What do you want with me ? ” Prosper made no 


PROSPER. 


221 


answer. He looked steadfastly at Didier, without 
seeming to recognize him, shivering, and trembling 
like a leaf. His disordered hair and neglected 
dress seemed to betoken that he had just passed a 
week in the woods, and the expression of his face, 
that he had been near committing some act of vio- 
lence. “ Come ! ” said Didier to himself, sadly. 
“I thought I had seen all; now he presents him- 
self to me under a new aspect ; his repertory is 
inexhaustible.” 

He addressed several questions to him, but 
could not get a word in answer. Prosper’s teeth 
continued to chatter, he seemed to hear nothing, 
to see nothing. Didier seized him by both hands, 
succeeded, not without trouble, in getting him to 
stand upright; then, supporting'him by the arm, he 
drew him out of the arbor, and walked with him 
in the direction of the house. Prosper made no 
resistance, but he did not help himself ; several 
times his legs gave way under him, and he would 
have fallen, had not his brother held him up. 

They reached the foot of the stairs ; it was a 
difficult matter to get to the top. The steps were 
narrow and dark, and sometimes Randoce, his head 
hanging down, sank in a heap like a wet rag ; 
sometimes he stiffened himself like a bar of iron ; 
it was impossible to make him bend his knees ; he 
seemed completely palsied. Didier hoisted him as 
w^ell as he could from step to step, carrying him, 
dragging him, more than once in danger of a peril- 
ous fall. After many stumbles, he succeeded in 
getting him safe and sound into his room, where 
an arm-chair received him ; then he again tried to 
question him ; but, whatever tone he took, gentle 
or vehement, everything was without avail, and he 
could not overcome this obstinate dumbness. 
Prosper kept looking at him with his great, dull 
eyes ; it was the look of an Indian Yoghi , whose 


222 


PROSPER. 


soul is absent and travelling through space, leaving 
the body to take care of itself. As he did not 
cease trembling, Didier rubbed him, and forced 
him to swallow some drops of cordial, after which 
he ran to the linen press, took out some sheets, 
prepared a bed in the next room, and undressed 
with his own hands his brother, who allowed him- 
self to be handled like an inert mass. 

When he had wrapped him in the blankets, 
Didier drew an arm-chair near to the head of the 
bed, sat down, and opened a book. From time to 
time he got up, and looked : Prosper preserved 
the same attitude, his eyes open and fixed on the 
ceiling, motionless as a statue ; he would have ap- 
peared to be in a catalepsy but for his regular 
breathing and full pulse. Once or twice he half- 
opened his mouth, as though to speak ; but his 
throat closed, and the voice expired on his lips — • 
“ Is he acting ? ” asked Didier of himself. It was 
probable that Prosper had that evening felt violent 
emotion of some sort, and that his nerves were in 
bad condition ; it was also probable that his will 
kept up a silent understanding with his nerves, and 
that he aided nature. All our sentiments are in- 
complete ; it is our imagination which completes 
them ; can a poet be reproached for understanding 
his trade ? The Randoces of this world act with art, 
but without feigning ; they possess the genius of 
drama, and bring truth upon the stage. Their 
brain is a storehouse of theatrical adjuncts. - 

This night appeared, as may well be believed, 
mortally long to Didier. He counted the quarters 
striking. By turns pretending to read, and ex- 
amining his sick man, he was seized with feelings 
of impatience which he had difficulty in mastering. 
As morning began to dawn, an idea struck him, lie 
bethought himself of an experiment. Speaking to 
himself, he began, “ Poor wretch ! I declared to 


PROSPER. 


223 


him the other day that he had neither heart nor 
honor. The expression was severe : hut then did 
he not basely abuse my trust ? Does he even sus- 
pect what friendship means ? ” 

Prosper did not stir. “ Decidedly the man is 
deaf,” thought Didier, “ let us speak to the 
poet ; ” and taking from his pocket the paper which 
he had picked up on the Dev&s, he read aloud from 
it this passage : “ To inquire the name of a large 
bird spotted with white which flies in jerks. This 
denizen of the air • may be useful. To put him 
down in my commonplace book.” “ Do true poets 
take such precautions?” continued he. “I am 
sorry ; this seems to indicate a sterile imagination.” 

At these words Prosper came back to life, as by 
miracle ; he suddenly sat up in bed. “ A sterile 
imagination ! ” he exclaimed, in a loud, distinct 
voice. “Permit me to tell you that you under- 
stand nothing about it. Consult any man of the 
trade, he will tell you that all poets have holes to 
stop up.” 

“ I have pushed the knob, . the door has opened,” 
thought Didier, and approaching his brother — “ I 
am quite ready ‘to be convinced,” said he, “but 
confess that you hear and speak.” 

An instant later he had reason to regret that 
Randoce was no longer mute. The lion seemed to 
be roused from a profound lethargy ; but his awak- 
ening was not amiable, his eyes assumed a sinister 
expression, he roared. 

“Death and fury, am I then under your roof ! ” 
exclaimed he, “ in the house of my insulter ! The 
man who speaks to me is the one who has lifted 
his whip over me ! Ah, who are you, I beg to 
know, that you should despise me ? What are the 
hard battles you have waged, the temptations you 
have vanquished ? By what victories have this 
ticklish honor, this haughty probity, been signal- 


224 


PROSPER. 


ized ? You have had no other trouble than to let 
yourself live. While you rock yourself in your 
hammock, there are poor wretches struggling night 
and day with destiny. If these poor devils stumble 
in the fight, if they touch the earth with their 
knees, and a little mud bespatter their forehead, 
whence do you derive the right to condemn them ? 
Mr. Man of honor, drape yourself, if that please 
you, in your immaculate virtue, but ask yourself 
what it has cost you, and judge no one. It is a 
great thing to escape being spattered, when you 
go through life on a golden cloud ! Descend to 
the earth, and we shall see how you get along. Ha ! 
you think I am one of those men whom you can 
refuse to fight ! I have sworn that I would force 
you to fight with me ! At the hour of noon, in 
the presence of everybody, I will inflict upon you 
such an affront that you will be obliged to get off 
your high horse. For two days I have been watch- 
ing you, but you perch on the clouds. In vain 
have I been tramping around, meeting no one, and 
gnawing my fists. I had lost my head. I was 
crazy, crazy enough to be tied down — ” 

“ An intermittent madness,” interrupted Didier, 
coldly, showing him the leaf of paper which he 
had placed upon the table. His phlegm exasper- 
ated Randoce, who had a real fit of fury. He 
made one bound of three feet, threw into the 
middle of the room bolster, pillows, and counter- 
pane, then springing out of bed, he rushed towards 
the door. Didier was there before him, and turned 
the key. He needed all the voice, lungs, reason, 
patience, and especially muscular strength, he pos- 
sessed to get the madman back into his bed. Even 
then he had to be kept there by main force ; he 
beat about like the devil in a font of holy water. 
“ Do not come near me ! leave me ! ” cried he, at 
the top of his voice. “You want to secure the 


PROSPER. 


225 

person of your debtor. You shall have your fifty 
thousand francs. From Saint May, I rushed to 
Paris. The little I possessed, my furniture, bronzes, 
books, I sold everything. Then I played, won, and 
lost. Out of this shipwreck I have saved two hun- 
dred francs. They are there in the pocket of my 
coat. Take that much on account ; you shall not 
wait long for the rest. There is no trade so vile 
that I will not consent to embark in it for the pur- 
pose of paying you, for rather than remain your 
debtor, I would scratch up the earth with my 
nails.” 

“ I do not want your money,” answered Didier ; 
“and, if you become reasonable, you shall know 
why — I have a secret to reveal to you, but I will . 
not tell it to a madman.” 

“ What secret ? Everybody’s secret — I do not 
wish to hear anything. Why did you bring me 
here ? To insult me again,” and in a sharp voice : 
“ Ah, yes, that is settled. I have a sterile imagina- 
tion.” 

Didier tried hard to repair the effect produced by 
this unlucky word. “You are mistaken,” said he ; 
“ and you take the thing all wrong. You possess 
imagination enough. Indeed, you have too much 
of it. I believe in your talent, you know that 
already, and would to God I could have as much 
confidence in your character ! ” 

Randoce grew suddenly calm ; his features showed 
no longer their ferocious expression ; he was 
touched, his eyes filled with tears. He confessed, 
weeping, that he had been to blame ; it was the 
fault of Didier, who had embittered him by his 
reproaches, alienated him by his arrogant behavior. 
There was a way to deal with him. To sum up 
everything, he asked only to do right, he had never 
refused to listen to good advice ; but Didier had 
not known how to find the right place, he had 
10 * 


226 


PROSPER. 


armed himself with the severity of a censor when 
he ought to have spoken as a friend. A blooded 
horse is amenable to kind treatment, but harshness 
makes him rebellious. After this rigmarole, he 
began to string together another : he complained 
of the rigor of the times, accused the severities of 
society, which treats men of letters like a step- 
mother ; she abandons them to all hazards : life 
has its necessities ; every one gets out of them as 
he can ; why are there no Prytaneums for poets ? 
They are required to be saints ; then let them be 
shielded from temptations ! Kindling with his 
speech, his anger revived ; but this new fit lasted 
only a short time ; some blows of the fist launched 
into space, some bursts of voice, this was all ; 
after which he bemoaned himself gently, like a 
child who affects to be sulky with his nurse that 
she may console and pet him. 

It was already broad daylight. Didier could en- 
dure no more. “If I may judge by my own 
fatigue,” he said, “ you must be greatly in need 
of repose. Calm yourself and try to sleep. We 
will talk afterwards.” At these words he retired, 
broken, crushed, worn out with fatigue, but firmly 
decided to try again a third experiment, which (I 
know not why,) he hoped would turn out better 
than the others. He immediately went down to 
the drawing-room and passed a cloth over his 
father’s portrait to take off the dust ; then he went 
to find Marion, and informed her that a guest had 
arrived, and that he wished her to show him great 
respect and attention. The worthy woman remon- 
strated as usual. “ Ah, monsieur,” said she, “your 
guests arrive like thieves during the night ! How 
did this one get in, through the window or through 
the attic ? ” 

“ You are too curious,” answered he. “ Try only 
to do what I tell you. You have the bad habit of 


PROSPER. 


227 

wondering at everything. Our guest, whose name 
is M. Randoce, has rather a strong voice ; if ever 
you hear him cry out loud enough to break the 
window panes, you take no notice, and be careful 
not to make the sign of the cross, and to say, 

‘ Alas ! 5 Sometimes he has rather impulsive ways ; 
if he should happen to break a whole pile of plates 
ybu must pick up the pieces without opening your 
eyes too wide ! ” 

“ And if he ever happens to set fire to the house, 

I must say amen ! ” interrupted she, quite bewil- 
dered. 

“ In that case we will take counsel together,” ' 
said he, smiling ; “but be easy; the person in ques- 
tion lights only theatrical fires.” 

This last phrase, which she did not understand, 
put the climax to her terror. 

“ A plate-breaker ! an incendiary ! ” murmured 
she. “ Ah ! sir, what would your father say, if he 
knew you had such friends ? ” And returning to 
the kitchen, she enjoined Baptiste to make the 
rounds every evening. 

Towards the end of the morning, Didier himself 
brought Prosper his breakfast ; he found him sit- 
ting up in bed, a sheet of paper over his knees, a 
pencil in his hand. 

“ I have composed this morning a hundred lines,” 
cried Randoce, “ all true metal ; some of them are 
the best that I can hatch. The scene of to-night had 
put me in the vein. What will you have ? Sterile 
imaginations take advantage of everything,” and 
he added — “ When will you lay aside what I call 
your bourgeois coarseness ? Everything is to you 
matter of astonishment and scandal. My bird 
spotted with white sits heavy on your heart. You 
treat all that sort of thing as artificial ornamenta- 
tion. Shakespeare perceived one day a nest of swal- 
lows just above the top of a carriage gateway, and 


228 


PROSPER. 


instantly he said to himself, ‘I will hang this nest 
on the door of Macbeth’s palace.’ This is the way 
true poets do. Everything is of use to them, 
they provide themselves everywhere with meta- 
phors and similes ; to speak properly, that is what 
their life is good for. You cannot use too much 
care, for in every ragout so many ingredients enter. 
If our man finds himself running short, he goes at 
once to his larder. It is related that Goethe passed 
two hours in contemplating a small white pebble. 
I fancy he was asking himself in which of his poems 
he should place this pebble, finely cut and streaked 
with gold. These are our investments, and they 
are as good as any stock-broker’s. The subject, 
you say — get everything out of your subject. The 
subject, I tell you, is the fish — but with what sauce 
will you serve it ? This is what reveals our genius. 
Let us give the sauces in order, my dear sir, and 
long live Margot ! ” 

He breakfasted with great appetite, emptying at 
the same time his plate and his bag of words, after 
which sleep overtook him suddenly in the very 
midst of a phrase, one half of which remained un- 
uttered : he closed his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, 
and went ‘off in a slumber. 

Hidier rang for Baptiste, and ordered him to 
send to the hotel for Prosper’s trunks. 

Towards six o’clock, he returned and found 
him up, but he was no longer the same man. 
A cloud was on his brow, his expression was 
haughty; his look that of a grandee of the olden 
time, and his whole person betokened a disposition 
both incisive and belligerent. 

“ Why are these trunks here ? ” said he in a lofty 
tone, “ and I myself, why am I here ? I seem not 
to have had my wits about me ; my sleepless nights 
had stupefied me. A few hours of sleep have 
cleared up my ideas, my recollections have become 


PROSPER. 


229 

disentangled. Do you think this can be ? There is 
between you and me a mortal enmity, a double insult 
which has not been wiped out. It may be that 
you take these things easily, but with me they 
are more difficult of digestion. We have an ac- 
count to settle ; but this is not the place — adieu ; 
we shall meet elsewhere — ” 

“ One moment, if you please,” said Didier, hold- 
ing him back. “ This is what I propose. Let us 
suppress the past, and begin the game anew. I 
wished to be your friend and have not succeeded. 
Let us try something else. I have but to utter one 
word and the man who now speaks to you will 
appear in an entirely new aspect. To-day you will 
have seen him for the first time.” 

“ What is the meaning of all these mysterious 
words ? ” interrupted Prosper. “ You have a secret 
to reveal to me. This secret — ” 

“ Have the goodness to follow me,” said Didier, 
and he led the way to the drawing-room. At this 
moment Marion was watering the flower-pots. At 
the sight of Randoce, she Uttered a cry, as if she 
saw a ghost: her watering-pot escaped from her 
hands, and the water was spilled on the floor. 

“ Jesu Maria ! ” she murmured — “ your friend, sir, 
is the image of your father when he was young ! ” 
Didier signed to her to leave the room, and 
turning towards Prosper, whom the movement 
and exclamation of Marion had struck with aston- 
ishment, “ The good woman is right,” said he — 
“This is the portrait of my father: it is certain 
that you bear a strong resemblance to it, and I 
doubt whether chance has had much to do with the 
likeness.” 

Prosper grew pale, then red, by turns he contem- 
plated the portrait and looked at himself in the 
glass: then turning his eyes upon his brother, who 
was watching him attentively : 


230 


PROSPER. 


“ Can it be true ? ” 

“Nothing is more true.” 

“ This, then, is the key to the enigma ! ” he ex- 
claimed, as he thrust his fingers through his hair. 
“ Am I dreaming ! Are we acting a play ? A 
watering-pot falls, a good woman utters a cry, a 
glass, a portrait ! This is your father, our father, 
you are my brother, I am your brother — emotion 
— Tableau ; but the curtain does not fall — the 
piece is only just begun.” 

His voice failed him, he let himself fall into an 
arm-chair, and hid his face in his hands. Didier 
was waiting, he did not utter a word. He asked 
himself what would come out of this silence, this 
absorption. What was Prosper thinking? what 
was passing in his heart ? There are seconds 
which decide a whole lifetime ; souls have their 
revolutions, their rebellions, their coups-d'etat 
which reveal their mysterious inner motions. It 
seemed to Didier that his brother, when he looked 
up again, would show him a wholly new aspect, a 
face hitherto unknown, the face of a brother. 

At last Randoce took away his hands from his 
face. “ Do you know,” he said, “ what I am think- 
ing of? I am really sorry, my dear fellow; I had 
until to-day taken you for an extraordinary being, 
whose name deserved to be written in letters of 
gold on the glorious register of the benefactors of 
letters and humanity. Now I see there was noth- 
ing so very sublime in your action. You had a 
little family duty to fulfil, and, let me confess, it 
without reproaching you, you have tried your best 
to acquit yourself of it. Let us cast aside all 
bitterness, and embrace each other, Monsieur my 
brother ! ” 

Didier stood motionless. He felt a cold sweat 
' steal down his back. 

Prosper had his head too full of ideas to perceive 


PROSPER. 


23 


the impressions which he had just produced on 
Didier. Starting off at a tangent, as usual — “ And 
to think,” said he, “ that only yesterday afternoon, 
I was within a hair’s-breadth of taking leave of 
my life ! I was mad, and I had reason enough to 
he so. A great insult, which was weighing on my 
heart — it seemed to me as if I had swallowed a 
pebble. And with all that, no means but two hun- 
dred francs which belonged to you. No more Car- 
minette, no more Lermine, nothing in the present, 
nothing in the future ; I saw only closed doors 
before me, my only possessions two empty hands, 
and a stone on my heart. Upon my word ! I made 
up my mind — I entered the hotel, I wrote to you a 
letter most eminently pathetic, in which I laid my 
death at your door. These are things which re- 
lieve us; we say, he cannot help being moved by 
this, it will disturb his digestion. I folded my 
letter, stuck into it the two hundred francs, closed 
the envelope, sealed it, and behold me climbing 
up the Deves. ... I caught sight of a big 
devil of a rock which would exactly serve my pur- 
pose, and which was surely placed there expressly 
for that, but a man who respects himself does not 
commit suicide without first pronouncing a mono- 
logue ; this is a strict obligation at the theatre. In 
the midst of my little speech, I stooped down, I 
know not why, and touched with my hand a big 
tuft of lavender. There remained on the end of 
my fingers a delicious perfume which saved my 
life. I said to myself that a man who has lost 
everything, who is at the end of his resources, can 
yet procure for himself very cheaply, or even 
gratis, exquisite sensations, which are worth the 
trouble of living. — You may call it a miracle if you 
please, this perfume of lavender changed my ideas 
of life, of the world ; I drew back three steps, my 
rock was unpleasant, it had a mocking look ; you 


232 


PROSPER. 


would have sworn it was waiting for me, it seemed 
to say : 4 He is making a great fuss about this ; 
when is he going to jump ? 5 I said to it: 4 My boy, 
I shall not jump, I will wait for another time.’ 
I rubbed my fingers hard with lavender, and seat- 
ing myself upon a stone, I passed my monologue 
over to the running account of Antonio, Son of 
Faust. You found my paper, you must give it 
back to me, I need it. All this proves that suicide 
is folly. Kill thyself, blockhead ! twenty-four 
hours later thou wouldst have found thyself in 
possession of a brother and a future. God bless 
lavender ! thenceforth I shall always carry some of 
it about me in a sachet.” 

Baptiste came to tell them that dinner was 
ready. 44 All good luck comes at once ! ” said 
Prosper, taking Didier by the arm. 44 1 am as hun- 
gry as a wolf ! Inter pocula , you shall relate to me 
the history of my birth!” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

For at least' a fortnight Randoce was a delightful 
companion, and in a charming humor. He thought 
over and dwelt with delight upon the unexpected 
discovery which he had just made. He had forgot- 
ten the past, the future beamed upon him under the 
most glowing auspices. He had a brother, a rich 
brother, whom he knew to be a man of easy dispo- 
sition, and this brother had deigned to own him as 
a brother ; this was an acknowledgment bearing 
promise. At the very moment when his dismasted 
bark was sinking among shoals, one puff of wind 
had sent it into the channel again, and he was now 


PROSPER. 


233 

tasting the delights of being safe in harbor. Add 
to this that he had been sensibly pleased in discov- 
ering that Prosper Randoce was come of good 
stock, of good lineage ; he expanded in his new- 
found gentlemanhood. It had always been matter 
of displeasure to this eagle that he had sprung from 
a poultry-yard. Whence came his appetite for 
glory, his habits of lofty flight, his love for the em- 
pyrean? That a Randoce should be the offspring 
of a Pochon, this mystery passed the reach of the 
human mind. Wow, everything was explained ; he 
felt a noble blood flowing through his veins, and, if 
possible, loved himself still more for it. In short, 
he appreciated vividly all the privileges of his new 
situation ; but he was not impatient to put them to 
use, he was stopping to take breath, he was contem- 
plating his good fortune. No doubt his brother 
nourished towards him the best, the most liberal in- 
tentions. Prosper meant to let them take their 
way. Men of imagination are never in haste, they 
enjoy their hopes too much to require them to be 
cashed at once. 

His happiness giving him new stimulus, he rose 
with the day, and worked like a good fellow. After 
breakfast, he took long walks with Didier, under 
the most beautiful sky, and through the finest 
orchards in the world. On the way, he told him the 
whole history of his life, his childish memories, Bor- 
deaux, Angoul^me, Paris, the mysterious awaken- 
ing of his poetical demon, the severities of Pochon 
(who had no idea of having his son unfaithful to 
the grocery, and feeding on empty viands and 
smoke), his hurried and furtive reading pursued 
secretly in the dim light of the back shop, his 
nightly interviews with Racine and Shakespeare, 
his reveries, his exaltations, the heroic combats of 
his vocation against brown sugar, and how by 
means of patience, obstinacy, and cunning, the 


234 


PROSPER. 


putative scion of a very ignorant, petty tradesman 
had become the poet, the man of genius, the reno- 
vator of high art, apostle of style, hope of the 
theatre. Didier listened with indulgent ear to 
these interminable stories, and said amen to every- 
thing. Only now and then he seized the opportu- 
nity to bestow on his brother some sage counsel or 
discreet remonstrance. The latter took all gently ; 
not, however, without representing to his Mentor 
the enormous difference which exists between a man 
whose fortune is ready made to his hand, and an- 
other who is obliged to make his for himself, and 
that it ill becomes a planter of cabbages, who has 
never seen the sea, to blame the pearl-fishers who 
are shipwrecked. After dinner, they sat in the 
fresh air, on the terrace, and the evening was passed 
in talking fine arts and poetry. In these conversa- 
tions, Randoee often drew a very long bow ; but in 
consideration of his ardor at his work, Didier passed 
over everything, and whatever nonsense he might 
talk, contented himself with silently turning his 
tongue in his mouth. 

It was thus that for a fortnight peace reigned in 
the house of David. Israel and Judah had inter- 
changed the kiss of peace. This peace was only an 
armistice. Israel sounded his trumpet, and the 
truce was over. 

One evening, Randoee read aloud to his brother 
his first two acts, of which he had hitherto recited 
only the finest tirades. Logic was not his strong 
point ; he worked by fits and starts ; in these two 
acts the characters, boldly conceived, were ill sus- 
tained, and the scenes badly put together ; an exu- 
berance of convulsive lyricism injured the develop- 
ment of the action ; side-dishes, en-cas abounded. 
These irregular portions hung badly together. 
However well disposed to admiration, Didier could 
not help comparing this poetry 'to certain birds 


PROSPER. 


235 

whose legs are too short, and which, hold in flight, 
are yet ridiculous when they walk. “ Can it be that 
my half-brother has only a half-way talent ? ” he 
asked of himself anxiously. He concealed his 
doubts, applauded the good points, and contented 
himself with objecting to the inconsistencies which 
had most struck him. Prosper remained thought- 
ful for a few moments. 

“ I believe you are right,” he said at last. “ There 
is a second scene to do over in this second act ; it 
will be a two-days’ business.” 

The next day he set to work at the first crow of 
the cock ; but in vain did he strike his forehead, no 
one replied. Whoever has handled a pen, is ac- 
quainted with these unlucky days when the mind 
seems struck with sudden sterility ; nothing comes, 
nothing grows ; the sap which used to boil up, 
stops and congeals ; the brain grows thick ; every- 
thing swims before the eyes, all looks gray, the 
color of rain and fog, and the same man who only 
the day before was passionately eager in his work, 
to-day gives himself over to the foul fiend, like a 
galley slave dragging his chain and bullet. In 
such times of distress, a man must help himself by 
getting in a rage, calling to his aid “ a noble de- 
spair,” as old Corneille says ; but Randoce was in- 
capable of those rages of will, which are stronger 
than all disgust. Quickly discouraged if he did 
not take the place by assault, the dreary length of 
a siege was terrifying to his slothful vivacity. He 
was only'good at the first burst ; he knew not the 
art of hard work. Effacing, correcting, retouch- 
ing, patience for all this was wanting to him. He 
read and re-read the scene which he had determined 
to write over ; he erased some passages, and then 
found difficulty in writing them over. lie thought 
he should do better by effacing everything ; his 
fount of inspiration was dry, nothing but fragments 


PROSPER. 


236 

of verse and of thought came into his head. He 
grew impatient, fell sick at heart, rumpled up his 
paper, and threw it into a corner. 

That morning Didier had gone out on business ; 
he was not to come back until evening. Prosper 
was condemned to pass the whole day tete-h-tete with 
his ill-humor. The leaven was good, the dough 
fermented with marvellous facility. 

“ He is as mute as a fish,” said he suddenly to 
himself. “ What are his intentions ? what does he 
mean to do for me ? what is he waiting for before 
explaining himself.” And turning his eyes around, 
“ This house is a gaol ; these walls exhale ennui” 
and he thought on the rue de Tournon and Carmi- 
nette. 

He strolled out. Plunged in sombre reflections, 
he ascended the mountain about half way. Reach- 
ing an open platform, he turned back, his eyes took 
in the whole plateau of the Guard, the farms scat- 
tered amidst verdure, the fields of wheat, the olive 
woods, the vineyards, and like an honest landholder, 
surrounded by his vassals, who in their best attire 
are celebrating his fete day, the castle, the vanes of 
which were sparkling in the sun. No, the Chateau 
of Guard bore no resemblance to a gaol, it wore 
the aspect of a large and well-built house, very 
comfortable and well-to-do. This landscape, in 
which everything breathed riches and abundance, 
made the most vivid impression on Prosper. He 
sat down on the ground, his back against the trunk 
of a beech-tree, and leaned his chin upon his hand. 
His eye fixed on the glistening vanes, he beheld 
again in imagination the dark back-shop in which 
his childhood had vegetated ; he heard a certain 
hymn which his mother used to mutter as she 
scoured her pots and pans with sand, and the dis- 
cordant voice of Pochon, crying, “ Little vagabond, 
eat your slice of bread ! Must Monsieur have 


PROSPER. 


23 7 

ortolans ! ” He recalled all at once, harsh correc- 
tions which he had undergone, hashes which had a 
musty taste, a certain green coat which had been 
made for him out of an old curtain, and in which he 
dared not go out for fear of ridicule ; he remem- 
bered also the fighting of cats on the roof, and the 
guttering of his candle, when at night, blowing on 
his fingers, he had read Racine in his hiding-place. 
How dreary had everything been in this shop life ! 
how mean, narrow, heart sickening, how adapted to 
mortify the senses, to strangle genius ! All the 
privations, all the distresses of his youth came back 
in procession before him, and his heart swelled with 
bitterness, while his looks remained fixed upon the 
two weathercocks which seemed to be enjoying the 
light. As he rose, he said but one word — “ Why 
he, rather than I ! ” 

He came down again and breakfasted alone. After 
he had left the table, he walked long in the draw- 
ing-room. Each time that he passed before his 
father’s portrait, he cast on it a fierce glance. This 
look was equivalent to a requisition. Then he took 
from the bookcase a small volume bound in green 
morocco. This was the collection of the five Codes. 
He gave himself the melancholy pleasure of seeking, 
under the head of filiation, and under that of suc- 
cession, all the articles relative to natural children. 
This investigation was not calculated to rejoice his 
heart. Didier came in shortly afterwards, and was 
struck by the change which had taken place in him, 
by his stiff and taciturn air. 

“ How is the Son of Faust ? ” asked he. “ Have 
you done a good piece of work this morning ? ” 

“You are my evil genius,” answered Prosper, 
savagely. “My imagination is a sterile one.” 
And throughout the whole day he unclosed his lips 
not once. 

Randoce had little dignity of character, little 


PROSPER. 


238 

consecutiveness in his ideas, little depth in his im- 
pressions; good or bad, all his feelings were super- 
ficial. It often happened to him to go to sleep 
devoured with hatred and envy, and, at his awaken- 
ing, to look for his anger and not find it again: it 
had been left under his pillow. In the weeks 
which followed, he had again his good moments; 
his gayety came back by gleams, with rhyme and 
hope; but these moments of good-humor became 
more and more rare. It seemed as if, since his 
brother had reproached him with the inconsis- 
tencies of his personages, he piqued himself on 
being more consistent in his own behavior. The 
cloud which covered his brow was only dispelled at 
brief intervals; there was in his eyes that feverish 
brilliancy which indicates the silent working of one 
fixed idea. For hours together he remained with 
mouth closed, letting his eyes speak for him. At 
table he willingly unbent: the skilful cooking of 
Marion had power to conjure the blue devils which 
had laid hold on him, and the dark vapors which 
clouded his brain. When he had swallowed some 
glasses of the sweet nectar of Saint Cecilia, his 
tongue was loosened, and it often happened that, 
in opening a bottle of Champagne, Didier opened 
Prosper at the same time; but in proportion as the 
night drew on, he sank again under the spell of 
his melancholy. With arms crossed on his breast, 
with head sunk, with gloomy brow, draping him- 
self in his wings of thunder-smitten archangel, he 
went and came through the room, casting towards 
the four cardinal points looks which accused gods 
and men. Then suddenly he would stop and strike 
on the wall three sharp, quick strokes with the 
palm of his right hand; this gesture was very ex- 
pressive; it marked a sort of taking possession; it 
was a way of saying: “Half this House belongs to 
me.” 


PROSPER. 


239 

On the other hand, there were days when from 
morning till night he never stopped talking. In a 
sharp-toned voice, with abrupt gestures, on what- 
ever theme chance furnished him, he thundered 
away about this thing and that in a tone of anger, 
of prophetic fury. It might be supposed that the 
most indifferent things bore some secret relation 
to his destiny — that the north wind and the south 
wind had joined in the universal conspiracy against 
him. Often, too, to the great displeasure of Di- 
dier, he compared the languor and emptiness of his 
present life with the felicities he had enjoyed for- 
merly, when he had two mistresses, and his heart 
was divided between two loves, the combination of 
which formed a delicious harmony ; for woman 
being a fatally imperfect creature, he who would 
taste complete love must love two at once. A 
Carminette and a Therese — no rightly constituted 
man could do with less. And as every road leads 
to Rome, he found means to come back to his 
favorite thesis, and declared urbi et orbi that the 
man of genius is above all laws divine and human; 
that he is dispensed from all the small obligations 
which are incumbent on the common run of mar- 
tyrs ; that he has been placed here below to play 
upon his violin ; that his only duty is to play it well ; 
that regularity of life impoverishes and weakens 
talent; that, therefore, both poets and artists have 
the right to commit all imaginable peccadilloes, 
provided that art gain thereby. “ Every fault is 
an experiment, and experience is better than gold. 
Let us sin that poetry may abound! Rather may 
all morality perish than one fine verse!” And 
striking his breast — “If I knew that the intoxi- 
cation of crime would cause an immortal work to 
spring from my soul, I would exclaim with Dante: 
‘I have looked my crime in the face and com- 
mitted it ! ’” 


240 


PROSPER. 


To which Didier tranquilly replied that no man 
during his lifetime can he sure of possessing 
genius; that his contemporaries can only accept 
his claims subject to the judgment of posterity; 
that, besides, error never is of profit except to gen- 
erous souls; that a man may sin ten times a day 
and play no better on the violin ; that the only 
faults useful to us are those which we commit in 
good faith; that such as are resolved upon before- 
hand are of no service; that passion alone makes 
the poet, and that sincerity is the whole secret of 
high art. This controversy led them far. One 
declaim 3d like an Othello; the calm of the other 
never gave way. I know not which Didier pre- 
ferred — the silence or the orations of his brother; 
but what saddened him most was that Randoce no 
longer worked. He uttered no reproaches, and 
made up his mind to give no advice; but he was 
resolved to yield nothing, not to give in one inch. 
Confidence had succeeded badly with him; he held 
himself on his guard against his weakness. He 
waited for Prosper to sound the signal and ask to 
capitulate; he reserved it to himself to make the 
conditions. He had sworn that, up to that point, 
nothing should move him. He was, according to 
the expression of the poet, “ an ocean become 
terra jirma .” 

M. Patru had not been over-pleased to learn that 
the illegitimate son had taken up his abode at the 
Guard. He did not know under what circumstances 
the intimacy between the two brothers had been 
begun; but he augured evil of it. He made ac- 
quaintance with Prosper, and his anxiety redoubled; 
at their first interview he decided that the poet 
looked like a sharper. He scolded Didier for his 
excessive indulgence, and recommended him to be 
on his guard. “I am a good judge of faces,” he 
said to him. “That of this romantic personage 


PROSPER. 


241 


does not please me. He is a great actor, and I 
would be willing to bet that before two months it 
is he who will be giving orders here.” 

“Leave us alone,” answered Didier. “He has 
taught me to exercise my will. I have taken a 
liking for this little exercise, which is very health- 
ful, and I shall soon be a master in it.” 

On one of the first days of the month of August 
M. Patru came to breakfast at the Guard. Ran- 
doce knew that the notary sometimes strung 
rhymes together in his leisure moments. He testi- 
fied a desire to make acquaintance with his poetic 
lucubrations. M. Patru did not wait to be urged; 
he intoned his epithalamium. Prosper compli- 
mented him in a tone of raillery. “Who would 
have thought,” he exclaimed, “ that I should dis- 
cover at Nyons a priest of Apollo, the last descend- 
ant of Delille, a haunter of the banks of Permesse, 
a real chewer of laurel leaves ? I feared the 
mould had been broken. 

“ Thy inspiration charms the universe. 

The god of contracts is the god of verse.” 

M. Patru was piqued. He mounted his hobby, 
proclaimed Delille the king of poets, and mingled 
together romanticism and physiology. Prosper 
answered by railleries which stung him to the 
quick ; he grew warm in harness, and the quarrel 
threatened to finish badly, had not Didier hastened 
to interpose between the combatants. 

Randoce never bore malice against people for 
the impertinences which he had uttered to them, 
or the bad turn which he had played them. Never 
did man more quickly pass the sponge over other 
people’s wrongs. To him it seemed so natural to 
forget! After breakfast he rejoined in the garden 
M. Patru, who was strolling alone along one of the 
paths, turning over in his head the affront which 


242 


PROSPER. 


had just been put upon his epithalamium. He 
accosted him smilingly, as though nothing had 
happened. “Mr. Notary,” said he, “for a long 
time I have wished to address a question to you. 
Be so good as to accord me one instant of conver- 
sation.” 

“ Speak, young man,” answered M. Patru. “ I 
am wholly at your disposal. There is no service I 
am not ready to render you.” 

They went and sat down in the arbor. 

“ If I am not mistaken,” resumed Prosper, “ it is 
you, my dear sir, who revealed to Didier that he 
had a brother ? ” 

“ It is I. You have said it. Too happy that I 
was in communicating to him such excellent news! 
A brother ! What a treasure ! I have a good 
scent, a very good scent. I felt at once the un- 
speakable sweetness which intercourse with you 
would shed over his life.” 

“ Let us talk seriously. You were the confiden- 
tial friend of my natural father; it is to you that 
he made known his last wishes. Could you give 
me one word of explanation on this subject ? ” 

“ Interrogate me, young man. You shall be an- 
swered.” 

“ My father,” continued Randoce, laying stress on 
the two words, “ was, I am told, a man of heart and 
a man of sense. He had a very clear, very practical 
mind — ” 

“ He was precision itself,” replied the notary, sen- 
tentiously, tapping his snuff-box with his fingers. 

“ I conclude, therefore, that, since he kindly re- 
membered me on his death-bed, he must have made 
some arrangement in my favor, stipulated clearly 
what he intended to do for the child whom he had 
shamefully abandoned, after having brought him 
into the world.” 

“ And note this — without his authorization,” in- 


PROSPER . 


243 


terrupted the notary. 44 I have always reproached 
your father for having neglected this formality.” 

“ You agree, then,” continued Prosper, somewhat 
impatiently, “ that he did make known to you his 
wishes, and that these wishes were clear, pre- 
cise — ” 

44 Very precise, young man.” 

And, pretending indignation, M. Patru added : 
“ Ah, what ! has Didier sought to elude his engage- 
ments ? Has he concealed from you the whole 
extent of the obligations which he has contracted ? 
In that case, rely upon me, I will publicly take 
your part. I shall be the first to recall his duty to 
him.” 

44 I believe I may be obliged to have recourse to 
your aid,” replied Prosper, whose face had expand- 
ed. “ Didier is an honest fellow, but he likes to 
bargain, and, unhappily, I am in no position to 
lower my terms.” 

“ Well thought, well said! ” exclaimed M. Patru, 
opening his snuff-box. 44 In vain do you affect to 
defy Permesse. Here are metaphors which can 
only have grown on the borders of the Castalian 
Spring. Hearken well to me, young man: I still 
hear your father speaking. 4 Make Didier under- 
stand,’ he said to me, 4 that he has sacred duties 
towards his brother he owes him ’ ” — (here the 
notary, interrupting himself to take a pinch of 
snuff, watched out of the corner of his eye Ran- 
doce, who seemed to be hanging on his words). 
44 4 He owes him ’ — these are the veiy words your 
father made use of. 4 He owes him advice, much 
advice, and if need be — ’ ” 

“ And if need be — ” repeated Prosper, breathless. 

44 4 Consolations.’ ” 

Prosper maintained for some moments a gloomy 
silence. 44 1 was rightly assured,” he said at last, 
44 that my father was a man of heart.” 


244 


PROSPER. 


“ Good advice is worth gold,” replied the notary. 
“ I have always liked to receive advice. Indeed, it 
is the only thing that poets need. They profess to 
despise vile matter; antiquity pretends that they 
fed on dew, like the cicada. Ah, really, in point 
of good counsel, your father had arrears to j^ay up 
to you — for the rest he was quits. Ah — the Code 
is hardly tender to illegitimate children! Your 
father had given fifty thousand francs to Pochon. 
Fifty thousand francs make a nice little sum. You 
are said to be a very quiet-living man. Surely you 
have increased your little patrimony. On the 
word of a laurel-eater, you must be very easy in 
your circumstances, my fine fellow! Your father, 
you see, possessed a juridical sense, and the 
Code--” 

“ Go to the devil with your notary’s morality and 
your juridical infamies! ” interrupted Prosper, as 
he hastily left the place. 

“ My service to your metaphors ! ” answered M. 
Patru, quite joyous at having avenged his epitha- 
lamium. 

Some moments later, Didier having rejoined him 
in the arbor, he hastened to report the conversa- 
tion to him. “ Prudence, prudence ! ” added he. 
“ Your brother is your Mexico; and if you don’t take 
care he will cost you all you are worth. This chap 
has the most grasping fingers in the world, and I 
fear lest, either through feebleness or lassitude, 
you will let him do what he pleases with you.” 

“ I have already told you, Monsieur Patru, that 
I had learned to exercise my will.” 

“ Ah — and do yok know well what your will is ? ” 

“ For new business, new counsels. Had I been 
so happy as to find in my brother a man who had 
nearly the same turn of mind as I, I should simply 
have said to him : 4 Do not let us divide; we will 
have one purse.’ ” 


PROSPER. 


245 

“ A fine contrivance ! a happy idea ! ” exclaimed 
the notary. “ You make me shudder. Blessed be 
Providence, that Randoce is so transparent. To 
judge by his face, no one would trust him farther 
than he could see him.” 

“Such as he is, M. Patru, had I seen in him, 
since I have known him, one movement of sincere 
expansion, one outburst of heart and confidence, 
he would have taken strong hold on me, and I 
cannot tell what I might not have done.” 

“ And I say all the more, ‘ Blessed be Providence 
that this Randoce has a stone in place of a heart ! ’ 
But do not speak too loud, he might hear you, and 
I imagine that the rogue can, when he pleases, stuff 
tears into his voice.” 

“You do not know him. He has eveiy defect 
you please, but he is too much of a poet to be a 
hypocrite. He is not sincere, but he is not false; 
he has no scruples, but he is incapable of certain 
kinds of baseness. He has honor after his fashion, 
which is not, I confess, that of honest men. His 
imagination is better than his heart; the former 
frequents the company of gods and heroes, and if 
it sometimes makes him commit follies, on the 
other hand saves him from degradation. He has 
not always respect for himself, but he has considera- 
tion for himself, and the esteem which he enter- 
tains for his own talent stands him in lieu of 
dignity ; he carries about in his head certain 
chimeras, which he prizes more than all the gold 
of Potosi; therefore he marches on, with head 
erect, and his foot may slip in the mud, but he 
will not sink. There is no danger of his trying to 
get over me with cajoleries; when by chance he is 
amiable, it is because he is in a good humor; he 
would be incapable of restraining himself in order 
to captivate my good graces. He believes himself 
to have rights, and were I to give him a million 


PROSPER . 


246 

to-morrow, he would not deign to thank me. You 
see that he is not dangerous, and that you need 
not fear my Mexico’s costing me all I possess.” 

“ In fine, what do you intend to do for him ? ” 
exclaimed M. Patru, whom this language made 
uneasy. 

“In expiation of certain tricks which he has 
played me, and to teach him to keep his word, I 
shall require him to complete here a great drama 
which he has now in preparation, after which I 
shall give him his liberty and six thousand francs 
a year.” 

“ Six thousand francs ! ” said the notary in 
terror ! “ Why not a hundred thousand ? What 

would your father say ? He did not love money, 
but he valued it. Has he sweated blood and water 
all his life only that after his death his money 
might be engulfed in a gambling den or serve to 
maintain prostitutes ? ” 

They had a lively altercation on this subject. 
M. Patru went away furious, and all along the 
road muttering between his teeth, “ May the devil 
take idealists ! ” 

On returning to the drawing-room, Didier found 
Prosper seated opposite the portrait, and talking 
aloud to himself. It was in disconnected words; 
after each sentence he made a pause; but this 
broken talk was not wanting in sequence, the 
meaning was clear. “ I will leave it to the first 
comer to judge,” said he, “which of us two re- 
sembles him most ? Was I ever consulted ? Did 
I ask to be born ? What ought he have been to 
me ? Nature answers — everything ; society — noth- 
ing. Ragamuffin, what do you complain of ? Is 
not that all according to rule ? Thou art animated 
with an evil spirit. Oh these bad passions ! and I 
— I — tell you, Nature is God. Who invented so- 
ciety ? The race of Patrus, an immortal stock 


PROSPER. 


24 7 


who drink iniquity like water. In their leisure 
moments they boldly rhyme epithalamiums. Their 
laws — their code ! magnificent invention ! society 
barricading itself against justice. That is the 
code. Because they have reduced injustice to a 
system they rub their hands; Logic is content, and 
the interested leap for joy. At what ? worthy 
man ! remorse lays hold on you, you wish to 
acknowledge your sin ! impossible — Look at the 
7th article, 335 — after all, the evil is not so great. 
Is not Pochon there ? It is Patru who invented 
Pochon. He is so inventive; this knave ! Pochon 
is a worthy man; the child shall grow up under 
his wing. Happy little rogue! lodged, fed, dressed 
in green. Must Monsieur have ortolans ? And if 
the urchin, on growing up, should suspect that 
Pochon is not his father ? That case is provided 
for. Article 340. The investigation of paternity 
is forbidden ! Worldly interests have made the 
Code. They are there like rats in straw. Tempests 
of divine justice, when will your day come ? when 
will you come and sweep out all this filth ? ” 

“ Why do you not speak to me ? ” said Didier, 
who had seated himself. “ I would answer you.” 

“ I don’t care for your replies. I know what the 
privileged say: ‘ Touch not the ark of the Lord ! ’ ” 
“ Try to imagine for a moment that I hardly 
believe in my rights. Things are thus, we shall 
not change them. While awaiting something better, 
let us accept society, such as it is. My privilege 
is a fact to which I should like to reconcile you. 
This is all; are you in a condition to hear me? 
The brother remembers promises made to the 
friend. You engaged, unless I am mistaken, to 
come and finish your drama here. Fulfil your en- 
gagement, after which we will talk, and I swear to 
you, that if you are reasonable you shall not have 
to complain of me.” 


PROSPER. 


248 

“ There is but one word needful ! ” exclaimed 
Prosper, rising. “ Have you the sentiment of the 
just and the unjust ? Yes or no — do you acknowl- 
edge my rights ? ” 

“ How can I acknowledge them when my own 
seem to me doubtful ? ” “ My poor friend,” added 

he, “ you have but one word to say, and I should be 
at your mercy; but this word you will never find, 
for it must spring from the heart.” 

Prosper looked at him for a few instants in 
silence, then he left the room, exclaiming: 

“ What is fraternity'' s result? 

The right in safety to insult .” 

Next morning, however, he set to work again, 
and in the afternoon, consented with a tolerably 
good grace to walk with his brother. Didier took 
him to the Three, Plane Trees. Madame d’Azado 
was to return shortly; he had kept his word to her, 
and had attended to her garden; he wished to give 
a last look at it, and assure himself that his orders 
had been executed. The beauty of the terrace 
enchanted Randoce. “ Here are plane-trees of 
which I shall make something,” he said. a I de- 
vote them to immortality. As for this arbor of 
box, it seems to me cut out on purpose for a 
declaration scene.” 

At these words Didier seemed embarrassed, and 
Randoce perceived it. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Madame Bkehanne returned to Nyons not much 
pleased with her journey. She had not found in it 
what she had expected. Paris had seemed to her 
too large, too busy, too breathless. She had felt 


PROSPER. 


249 

herself almost lost in this vortex, she made no 
figure there. Decidedly Lima was better. In that 
adorable city there is no need to take trouble in 
order to be something, and life is a hammock in 
which to rock one’s pleasure. Neither had the 
Rhine performed its promises. The mysterious 
unknown, the hoped-for liberator, had appeared 
neither on the terrace of the Castle of Heidelberg, 
nor on the platform of the Rheinfels. Madame 
Brehanne had met at table Prussian clodhoppers, 
English lords, Muscovite boyards; not one of these 
had offered her his fortune and his hand. A 
Wallachian prince had appeared sensible to her 
charms; but the conjunction of the planets had 
never taken place; perhaps Lucile had crossed their 
intentions. 

On returning to the Three Plane Trees , Ma- 
dame Brehanne felt an oppression of heart like 
a prisoner who, after breathing the fresh air in the 
meadow, sees himself re-installed in his cell. She 
forbade her maid to unpack her trunks. Between 
eight and nine o’clock she went to give her melan- 
choly a turn in the garden. The moon was shining. 
She said to herself that this moon was the same 
which gave light to Lima. The reflection was 
somewhat soothing to her. Her daughter having 
joined her, “ Heavens, how happy you are, Lucile ! ” 
said she, sighing. 

“ Happy in what ? ” asked Madame d’Azado. 

“ In nothing — that is just what I admire. You 
are delighted to be here ; you have seen your 
flower-beds again. You are content.” 

“ It would depend only upon you to make me 
still more so. What has this poor house done to 
you ? Where can you breathe a more excellent 
air than here ? ” 

“Ah, if it be only necessary to breathe, we are 
very happy, very happy we are.” 

11 * 


250 


PROSPER. 


“ I do not say,” began Madame d’Azado again, 
“ that our life is madly gay ; but I neither desire 
nor regret anything. What use is it to move 
about? Everywhere the world bears the same 
face.” 

“ Yery well. The worst of it is, that here we do 
not live at all. Give yourself no trouble to con- 
sole me. Henceforth I shall never again envy you 
your pleasures. I shall have mine. Whilst you 
are contemplating your cactuses I shall look at my 
trunks. I have forbidden them to be unpacked. ” 
After a silence, Madame Brehanne resumed : “ Can 
it be possible that a woman like me has brought 
into the world a woman like you ? ” 

“ I am astonished at it too,” replied Madame 
d’Azado, smiling. “ Is it possible such prose 
should come from such poetry ? ” 

“That is just it, my dear. You cannot deny 
that you have the most positive mind that has ever 
been imagined in a woman. Arithmetic is your 
forte. You had not yet cut all your teeth when 
you had all your multiplication table at the end of 
your fingers. When you were taught that two 
and two make four, that gave you pleasure, and it 
was, I believe, the liveliest emotion of your child- 
hood. You did, however, commit a folly once, an 
error in calculation ; no one can always have the 
multiplication table in one’s head, and when vanity 
comes in, ideas grow confused, and twice two make 
five. One day you were absolutely determined to 
marry an old man who had not a cent — because 
this old man was a marquis.” 

Madame d’Azado raised her head and looked in- 
tently at her mother. “Are you quite sure,” said 
she, “ that this was my reason ? ” 

“ It is the only one I have been able to discover, 
but don’t be angry. Y ou have never made a mistake 
but once ; once does not make a habit. No one 


PROSPER. 


251 

understands as well as you, keeping books by double 
entry: debit, credit, no danger that you should ever 
mix these two. I repeat that you are an astonish- 
ing woman. The sky and stars might fall, and 
nothing would change the tic-tac of that clock 
movement which you call your heart. Have you 
ever dreamed with your eyes open ? have you ever 
sighed without knowing why ? Do you know 
what the ideal is ? has it ever happened to you to 
seek for anything ? ” 

“ Or any one ? ” interrupted Lucile. 

“You are a veritable statue,” continued Madame 
Brehanne, warming up. “ Is it living to desire 
nothing, to regret nothing, to hope nothing, to love 
nothing? Lima or Nyons, it is all the same to 
you. To breathe is your great occupation, and, 
thanks to God ! there is air everywhere. Do you 
know what I detest in your execrable Nyons ? It 
is that nothing happens here ; no one here has ever 
known what a morrow is. Your fountains are 
charming ; but for twenty years we might pace up 
and down this terrace without meeting an unknown 
face, and I might wear out my foot in striking the 
earth without anything springing from it which 
should in any way resemble an event.” 

Madame Brehanne had scarcely uttered these 
words when she started, and let a little cry escape 
her. She had just perceived a shadow which the 
moon projected in front of a thicket, and which 
much resembled a human profile. 

“What is the matter with you?” asked Lucile 
of her mother, who trembled like a leaf. Madame 
Brehanne pointed with her finger at this threaten- 
ing shadow on the gravel path, terminating in a 
head covered with thick hair and crowned with a 
broad-brimmed hat. 

“ You were asking for an event,” said Madame 
d’Azado, “here you are served to your taste.” 


252 


PROSPER . 


Saying this, she advanced with a resolute step 
towards the shrubbery. A man came out of it, no 
other than Prosper Randoce. He approached her, 
and, bowing respectfully, excused himself for his 
indiscretion. “ I am,” said he, “ neither a thief nor 
a marauder; I am a poor devil of a poet, seized 
with a noble passion for this garden, and desirous 
of seeing it again by moonlight. I was ignorant 
of your return, Madame, and thought I should dis- 
turb no one»l Poets possess nothing of their own, 
but the whole world has been given to them for^ 
their enjoyment. I have stolen neither flower nor 
fruit. Will you excuse me, if I content myself 
with carrying away this terrace in my eyes ? ” 

Madame Brehanne was entirely reassured when 
he added : “ I am the guest and the intimate friend 
of one of your relations, Madame. It is M. de 
Peyrols, who brought me here the other day. It 
is his fault if I have conceived a criminal passion 
for your plane-trees.” 

The terror of Madame Brehanne had given place 
to a gentle emotion which agreeably tickled her 
feelings. This unexpected meeting, this moonlight, 
this young man who had the cut of a hero of 
romance, and who started from the earth as though 
by the stroke of a wand, there was something mar- 
vellous in it, it was almost an adventure. She 
looked attentively at Prosper. “Do you know, 
my dear,” she said to her daughter, “that this gen- 
tleman resembles your late uncle, de Peyrols, as 
much at least as a poet can resemble a man of busi- 
ness ?” 

“ This resemblance,” said Prosper, “ had struck 
Didier, and it is from it that our intimacy sprang ; 
but I am assured that M. de Peyrols was a very 
reasonable man. Prosper Randoce is hardly that, 
since he is still here waiting to be turned out.” 

As he was making a pretence of going, Madame 


PROSPER. 


253 

Br&hanne stopped him, saying: “Yon are our 
prisoner. A poet is a rare bird in this melancholy 
region, and I had not expected to make such a 
capture this evening. Since your evil fate has 
made you fall into our hands, you shall not go 
until I have made you judge in my quarrel with 
my daughter.” She set before him her case at 
length. Could any woman resign herself to pass 
her life in a provincial hole? Was it living, to 
vegetate in a small town, where nothing happens, 
where each day resembles the preceding one, where 
ideas are as narrow as the streets, where everything 
is carped at, where the “ what will they say ” governs 
all actions, where people of spirit are tempted to 
hang themselves in order to be rid of their ennui f 
Randoce had his hands full ; his eyes were no less 
occupied than his ears ; he kept them fixed on 
Madame d’Azado, who, leaning against a cypress, 
let her mother talk, and watched the motion of the 
clouds. 

As soon as he could put in a word : “ If you 
speak in general,” he said to Madame Brehanne, 
“ I am of your opinion. I have, like you, Madame, 
a holy horror of small towns. To me they are 
like those banks where oysters are shut up and 
left to grow fat and green. No middle course for 
me ! I must have Paris or solitude, a great 
silence or much noise ; but I must confess to you 
that, since a few moments, it has become impossible 
for me to speak ill of Nyons or its inhabitants, and 
that at this minute there is no place in which I 
should like better to be, than here. I see myself, 
therefore, forced to send both parties out of court, 
and dismiss the suit.” 

They took some turns on the terrace. Madame 
Brehanne, enchanted with Randoce, poured out 
question on question, recital upon recital ; at the end 
of ten minutes he. was in possession of her whole his- 


254 


PROSPER. 


tory, I mean of her official history ; as to the other, 
he was free to guess it for himself. When he took 
leave : “ Since this terrace is to your taste,” said 
she, “ I hope you will return to it often ; you will 
find here, according as you make your choice, a 
perfect solitude or a Peruvian lady whom you will 
draw out of her ennui , a deed which shall he put 
to your credit as a work of mercy.” 

At the stroke of midnight, Randoce entered his 
brother’s study like a gust of wind. He had so 
excited an air, that Hidier thought at first he was 
intoxicated. He threw himself on a couch, and 
remained there in ecstasy, with a vague look. He 
was like a Turk who has beheld Mecca, and who is 
dreaming of the black stone of Kaaba. “ What a 
woman ! ” he exclaimed, all at once. “ What eyes ! 
what a neck ! what a figure ! what hands ! what a 
voice ! Were I to live for a hundred years without 
seeing her again, I should not forget her. I thought 
there were no women except at Paris. Ho you 
know The Source of Ingres ? This marvellous creat- 
ure is her sister ; just as the other listens to the 
noise of the water as it pours upon her urn, so this 
one seems listening to life, and to her thoughts. 
She has just come forth from eternal night ; day 
begins to break in her heart, she seeks to know 
herself, she would fain discover the key to the 
enigma and utter it, but it comes not to her lips ; 
there is silence in her smile. She is beautiful, 
strangely beautiful ; it is not a woman, but a 
dream ; she does not live, she is content only to 
breathe ; she does not walk, she floats. It is the 
very triumph of curve and line ! You are a sly 
rogue, my friend. You have never spoken to me 
of your miraculous cousin. Why did not you say 
to me, ‘ Some evening, you shall be walking on a 
terrace in a lovely moonlight, and what you will 
see there, will furnish you inspiration for six whole 


PROSPER. 


2 55 


months.’ Her mother reproaches her with being a 
statue. Happy the man who shall kindle in the 
bosom of this Galatea the sacred spark of life ! 
happy he who shall accomplish this miracle of 
eliciting speech from her smile ! ” 

He continued long in this Pindaric strain. If he 
had looked at his brother, who, leaning on the 
chimney-piece, was listening to him in silence, he 
would have been struck by the strange expression 
of his face. 

Imprudent shepherds, who have kindled a fire in 
the mountain, retire after covering it with ashes, 
thinking 4 they leave only dead coals behind them; 
the wind rises, scattering the ashes, the coals light 
up again, the flame sparkles. At this moment 
Didier’s head was on fire. He succeeded in re- 
straining himself, and interrupted his brother, only 
to say to him in the most tranquil tone : “ What 
enthusiasm ! My dear friend, Madame d’Azado 
is no dream, she is not a daughter of eternal night, 
it is broad daylight with her. She reasons, she 
has very clear ideas, and knows wonderfully well 
what she wants.” 

Randoce shrugged his shoulders as he went off ; 
“ Sleep your dormouse sleep, great one of the 
earth! The poet will work. This one night, at 
least, he will be happier than you.” Didier heard 
him until morning walking up and down his room, 
which proved that neither of them slept much. 

For three weeks, Randoce was passionately in 
love with Madame d’Azado. Whoever had dared 
to maintain the contrary, would have come off 
badly. He had also the symptoms of the malady ; 
he no longer seemed like himself, he had lost all 
desire to eat and drink, fed only on pure ambrosia, 
and — this is the surest indication of all — he had 
no more hatred in his heart, having almost forgot- 
ten that Didier was his brother. In love or not, 


PROSPER. 


256 

it must be confessed that he was crazy for Lucile ; 
day and night he dreamed of her, and his awaken- 
ings were terrible, like those of shipwrecked men 
to whom a well-set table appears in a dream. 
Every other day, he went, in the afternoon, to the 
Three Plane Trees , although he could perceive 
that the frequency of his visits astonished and an- 
noyed Madame d’Azado. He would come, resolved 
to make his declaration, to besiege the place. At 
the end of a few moments he felt his courage fail- 
ing, his bold impulses swept away by the current. 
The tranquil and serious air of Lucile, the perfect 
sincerity revealed in her look, the firmness of her 
good sense, her decided and well-behaved turn of 
mind, disconcerted all his plans; he saw an abyss 
yawning suddenly between him and his desire, and 
comprehended the folly of his hopes, but hardly 
was he alone again, when he forged a new Lucile of 
his fancy who had nothing in common with the other 
except her beauty. His chimera was accessible, 
complaisant, and within reach of his desire. Illu- 
sion and hope came back to him. The day after 
he would hasten to the Three Plane Trees , and see 
the abyss, and his good sense would cry : “ Impos- 
sible ! ” His consolation was to put all this into 
verse. Every night he mended his pen, and threw 
off his sonnet. 

The first time that Madame d’Azado saw Didier 
again, she made some inquiries of him about his 
guest, whose assiduities she said, laughing, disqui- 
eted her plane-trees. From a word which escaped 
her, Didier understood that she was astonished at his 
being the intimate friend of Randoce, and that she 
found it difficult to explain to herself a close con- 
nection between two men whose dispositions had so 
little conformity. He contented himself with an- 
swering, that M. Randoce was a man of talent, 
and that he must be excused for his singularities 


PROSPER . 


257 

of humor. Then came M. Patru, who sang in quite 
another key. He spoke vigorously against the 
intruder, and urged Madame d’Azado to keep this 
hare-brained fellow at a distance, as, sooner or 
later, he would make himself too familiar. Didier 
expostulated. Lucile terminated the discussion by 
saying to the notary : 

“ I am not so easily frightened. M. Randoce 
has the secret of amusing my mother. She would 
make a scene with me, if I begged him not to come 
so often.” 

Madame Brehanne had conceived for Prosper an 
admiration, which amounted to infatuation. She 
found him delightful, accomplished at all points. 
The hero of romance, after whom she had in vain 
been running on the banks of the Rhine, had come 
to seek her out at Nyons, in this region — where 
nothing ever happens. Devoured by ennui , she 
looked forward to his visits as the Hebrews in the 
desert sighed for their celestial manna. Randoce 
took great pains to please her ; he related for her 
benefit, with much spirit, theatrical anecdotes, ad- 
ventures sometimes rather scandalous, without ever 
letting escape a word too free ; everything was 
veiled with gauze, and yet no detail lost. Through 
all his idle talk, there would pass suddenly great 
flashes of lyrism. He would discourse upon genius, 
upon fatality, upon all immensities , and shaking 
his Olympian hair, make the universe tremble. 
This lyrism, these immensities , transported Madame 
Brehanne. 

To go to Cythera by way of Patmos, had always 
seemed to her the supreme happiness. One thing 
alone disquieted her ; was it really on her account 
that Randoce paid his visits ? When the mother 
and daughter were together, he accorded them an 
equal attention. The fact is, that he saw no neces- 
sity of sacrificing one to the other. Lucile seemed 


PROSPER. 


258 

to him adorable, but the conquest of Madame 
Brehanne was not to be disdained. He had, as we 
know, two cells in his heart, and these two cells 
having become empty almost at the same time, he 
would have been glad to furnish them both anew. 
With Madame Brehanne, he was almost sure of his 
success; he felt her in some sort already in his 
hands, and treated her with a certain authority. 
Knowing well that whatever day he should say, 
“ I wish it,” she would resist only for form’s sake, 
he was in no haste to bring on the end, and pre- 
ferred letting the fruit ripen on the branch. 

One day, when Prosper, finding himself alone 
with Madame d’Azado, had played in vain, during a 
whole hour, the sighing lover, he had one of those 
returns of reason by which he redeemed his follies ; 
“ I must give it up,” said he, as he went, away, 
“ these grapes are too green.” At which words, either 
through sense or anger, he felt himself suddenly 
cured of his passion. “ Some good has come out of 
it at least,” thought he again ; “ I have made 
twenty sonnets that are as good as those of Sou- 
lary.” 

However he still had one curiosity to satisfy. 
Next morning he entered Didier’s study, stretched 
himself on the sofa and remained some minutes 
without speaking, appearing to be plunged in a 
deep reverie. Then all at once : “ Let him who 
will, go to Naples! I say, possess this woman and 
die!” 

At this abrupt exclamation, Didier turned pale, 

f ot up, clenched his fists, and looking at his 
rother with a tenable expression, “ What woman 
are you speaking of ? ” said he. 

Prosper burst into a loud laugh; “Aha!” said 
he. “Where did you get the tragic mask? I 
begin to believe that I am infecting you. The 
expression is excellent, the gesture admirable. 


PROSPER. 


259 

You love your cousin? you have rights over her? 
why did you not speak? I am too delicate to 
poach on your grounds. So, then, you propose to 
lead to the altar this adorable widow ! Confess 
that you have long wavered before committing 
yourself. It is I who have brought you to a deci- 
sion. Now say that I am of no use to you. But 
frankly, is marriage a. thing in your line ? I am 
about to scandalize you ; you, a millionnaire, and I, 
a barefooted vagabond, are as much alike as two 
drops of water. It is easy to see that we are to 
some extent brothers. Neither of us takes life 
seriously. My frankness offends you? I forget 
the abyss that society places between us? That 
is no reason why you should devour me with your 
eyes. For pity’s sake, forget that you are my half 
brother ; once you treated me politely.” 

Didier went straight to him and put out his 
hand. “You know,” said he, “that it depends 
only on yourself to find in me something more and 
better than a half brother. When will you pro- 
nounce the word that shall place us on a level ? ” 

Prosper turned away his head and stuffed his 
hands in his pockets. “No! no!” said he: “I 
cannot lie. Why should I make a pretence of lov- 
ing you ? ” 

“ Bah ! you will come to it perhaps,” answered 
Didier, sick at heart. 

At this moment, Marion entered and gave him 
two packets. One post-marked Avignon, contained 
a letter, which he read through with an anxious 
look. ‘ An old friend of his father, who found him- 
self embarrassed, made a pressing appeal to his 
benevolence, and begged him to stand his security 
for a considerable sum. “Here I am obliged 
to go to Avignon,” said he, folding the letter up 
again. 

During this time, Prosper was examining the 


26 o 


PROSPER. 


superscription of the other envelope. He had 
recognized the handwriting, and uttered an excla- 
mation of surprise. “ Open this letter quickly,” 
said he to his brother. “ Either I am much mis- 
taken or it contains something more interesting 
than all Avignon can send you.” 

Didier tore open the envelope and drew from it 
a photograph. 

“ It is the portrait of Mile. Carminette,” said he. 
“ She is then so good as to remember me.” It was 
indeed Carminette, but Carminette in her glory. 
Carminette after her moulting, a Carminette new- 
feathered, spreading her plumage, with crest erect, 
bearing in all her features the noble pride of her 
triumphs. Didier was not mistaken; she was so 
good as to remember him. The Ruins of Volney 
had remained weighing on her heart ; she had never 
been able to digest the cruel affront which this 
insolent man had put upon her charms ; at the 
height of her success, she thought on it from time 
to time; and out of revenge she had bethought 
herself of sending her carte de visite to Didier, 
thinking thus to inflict on him the most poignant 
regrets, and make him exclaim in astonishment: 
“Behold what I have refused!” “What anight 
has offered thee,” says the poet, “ eternity cannot 
give back to thee.” 

Didier merely cast a glance at the photograph 
and threw it aside. Randoce instantly snatched it 
up, saying : “ Is it thus that you esteem this 
precious portrait ? ” Then he went and sat down 
with his treasure in the embrasure of a window, 
and while Didier read over again the letter of his 
Avignon correspondent, he exclaimed — “ Here 
thou art, then, charming muse of the tavern ! Yes, 
it is thou ! My heart expands in beholding thee 
again. I have not lost my life. I can say, with 
pride: ‘ This woman is my creation.’ Oh, marvel- 


PROSPER. 


26l 

lous coincidence ! This portrait arrives just at the 
right moment to cure me of my foolish chimera. 
The time of chatelaines is past. Adieu, superb 
idols, before whom it was necessary to bend the 
knee ! This age has invented a greater thing, the 
Woman — Comrade, who is the woman of the 
future ? Good-day, comrade ! you have restored me 
to myself. I despise you. Ah, fictions of vanity, 
what matters it what woman one loves ? what 
matter whether the wine be of Cyprus or of last 
year’s vintage; the bottle of common glass or of 
gilded crystal ? The intoxication of love is di- 
vine, and one can drink it without stooping in 
these eyes here.” 

He remained some moments in contemplation, 
then, uttering a sigh, he turned the card about in 
his fingers and perceived on the back two lines of 
fine writing which had escaped Didier’s notice — 
“ To Monsieur Didier de Peyrols, in memory of the 
night of the fourteenth of March, 186 — ” He was 
on the point of imparting his discovery to his 
brother, but he changed his mind and shut up the 
photograph in his pocket-book. 

An hour ldter Didier, who had resolved to set out 
without delay for Avignon, came to make his 
adieu. “ So,” said Prosper, “ you do not fear to 
leave your home in my charge ; this is a mark of 
confidence which touches me. What would you 
say if I profited by your absence to set fire to the 
four corners of your castle ? ” 

“ Do so, we will divide the ashes amicably.” 

As he passed through Nyons, Didier ordered a 
carriage at the Hdtel du Louvre and bade the 
coachman wait for him at the foot of the avenue of 
the Three Plane Trees. Ten minutes after he ap- 
peared before his cousin, who was surprised at his 
look of agitation. He began by informing her of 
his departure ; then, after a long silence : “ I have 


262 


PROSPER. 


something else to speak to you about.” But at 
these words his voice failed him; he stood motion- 
less before her, contemplating her with all his 
eyes, and suddenly hiding his face in his hands, he 
burst into deep sobs. His heart was in a state of 
agitation the violence of which terrified himself ; it 
seemed to him that the infinity of passion had just 
entered into him; what was passing in his soul could 
not rise to his lips. All he could do was to seize a 
fold of Lucile’s dress with his trembling fingers, 
and press it to his lips. For several months he had 
been profoundly unhappy; this bit of stuff was a 
relic ; there came from it a mysterious virtue, which 
consoled him for everything, rendered him indiffer- 
ent to the past, present, and future, to his whole life. 

Madame d’Azado disengaged herself gently; she 
was pale and trembling. “ What is the matter 
with you ? speak ! ” she said. 

“ I love you,” stammered he, “ but I cannot — 
dare not tell you so.” 

« For an instant she kept silence — “ I am less 
astonished than I ought to be,” she said at last — 
“ I know not how to feign. I will confess to you 
that for some time — yes — you have had a way of 
looking at me — I will not reproach you — but I am 
distrustful. Is it your fault or mine ? ” 

He made no reply. She continued in a voice 
which grew firmer by degrees. “There is one 
thing I should wish to know. One day you 
thought yourself in love with me. It was enough 
for you to say so, to be convinced you were 
'mistaken. I can pardon your heart its weaknesses, 
I would not forgive lightness. I know you so 
little, I am anxious. Can you swear to me that 
since that day you remember, no woman — ” 

“ I swear it to you,” said Didier, who had re- 
covered his voice. She looked at him attentively, 
then began again half smiling, 


PROSPER. 


263 

“ It is good to be sure of one’s self in the world. 
Let us both take time to reflect. Go to Avignon, 
and stay a week. When you return, I will give 
you an answer.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Randoce passed the whole of the next day in 
the best disposition of mind, and in a delicious 
far-niente. He felt, since the departure of Didier, 
a sentiment of deliverance, which dilated his 
heart. He was enough of a poet to be able to en- 
joy all the pleasures of the imagination He 
pictured to himself that his brother was dead, and 
had left him all his fortune. This castle, this 
terrace, these fields and orchards, this furniture, 
this silver, this china, all these things were his. 
He had entered into possession and was fixing jon 
his property the eyes of a bird of prey. What 
should he do with the Guard? Would it suit him 
to sell it ? or should he come to it as a country- 
place every year ? He hesitated about this alter- 
native ; he pondered both sides for a long time in 
his head, weighing the advantages and disadvan- 
tages. All things considered, it was better to keep 
the Guard. He would make of it a place of de- 
lights ; he would receive here a numerous and 
brilliant company; he would keep open house, 
would give fetes, galas which should be talked 
about, for he did not understand happiness without 
noise. 

In one of the wings of the chateau, there was 
an old half-ruined chapel, which he proposed to 
convert into a theatre. He passed two hours there, 
dreaming with eyes open. He saw above his head 


PROSPER. 


264 

a chandelier lighted, before him the stage, to his 
right and left an assembly, attentive and quiver- 
ing with emotion. At intervals a murmur of ad- 
miration ran through the crowd, there was clapping 
of hands, radiant faces were turned toward him; 
he surprised himself saluting in every direction 
with head and gesture, with a smile in which ap- 
peared at once the majesty of the Amphictyon and 
the mock modesty of an admired actor who wishes 
to hide from his triumph. A big rat, which climbed 
up his legs without ceremony, roused him with a 
start. “ I am more foolish than Perrette,” thought 
he. “ Where is my milk pitcher ? ” He discharged 
his ill-humor upon the innocent’ Marion, who came 
to call him to dinner, and to whom he gave, one 
upon another, five or six imperious orders. He 
detested the worthy woman for the devout worship 
which she rendered to the name of Peyrols ; she 
was in his eyes the agent or familiar of Didier, and, 
like M. Patru, an incarnation of the Civil Code. 
Marion gave him tit for tat ; she thought he looked 
like a bad character, she was indignant at his free 
and easy speeches and the insolence of his man- 
ners, and could not find words for her astonishment 
“that Monsieur should be intimate with such a 
man.” There was some mystery under it, she 
thought. “This sponge,” she said to Baptiste, 
“ has something in his eyes which scares me.” 

After his dinner, Randoce had the paper brought 
to him. What first drew his attention was, a puff 
which announced to the attentive universe that the 
Catholic Censor was for sale. Then came a quo- 
tation, which Prosper found pitiable, and which 
made him shrug his shoulders. “ To what miser- 
able scratcher of paper,” he exclaimed, “can 
Lermine have given my place ? What a style ! 
It is dotage ! nonsense — no matter ! I missed a 
superb affair there, and this poor Therese, what 


PROSPER . 


265 

has become of her ? She has emptied the cup of 
humiliation. The good man knows what he is 
about. He has made her pay his pardon dear. 
For fear of scandal, the poor woman has had to 
put herself again under the tutelage of this im- 
becile, who will eat her up to her very soul with- 
out her daring to complain. She is well rewarded 
for her bold stroke.” 

To escape from his melancholy reflections, he 
again opened the paper. Another piece of news, 
far more interesting than the first, changed the 
color of his ideas; the ever more attentive uni- 
verse was informed that Mile. Carminette had just 
entered upon her vacation, and that she was on the 
point of setting out for Marseilles, where she had 
made a profitable engagement with the manager 
of a Cafe chantant. This news made a deep im- 
pression on Randoce. “In a few days,” thought 
he, “she will pass close by here.” He reflected a 
few moments, then took his pen, and wrote to his 
faithless one a supplication of six pages. He begged 
of her, on both knees, that, on her way to Marseilles, 
she would deign to make a detour of a few leagues 
and come and pass a day at Nyons. He offered 
her hospitality in the most beautiful chateau in 
the world, where she would be received like a 
princess. He wished to conclude with her a treaty 
of peace and friendship, and promised that in re- 
turn for her complaisance, he would dedicate to 
her three songs of the first merit, which he had 
composed for her. 

Two days after, he went to the Three Plane 
Trees . Madame Brehanne, who had been three 
full days without seeing the hero, received him 
with great eagerness, mingled with languishing re- 
proaches. He met her coquetries with coldness. 
He was absent, preoccupied. He thought of 
Carminette, of her unfettered airs, so mettlesome, 
12 


266 


PROSPER. 


poetically daring, of her audacious wild-cat move- 
ments, of her sparkling eyes, which had such claws, 
of the mad inventions with which she seasoned 
pleasure ; he thought he beheld again this astonish- 
ing girl, this sublimely hideous creature, this cherub 
of hell, as he called her — and at this moment Mme. 
Brehanne seemed to him a vulgar coquette; he was 
very near finding her ugly. Madame d’Azado 
arrived just as he was preparing to go. He had 
sworn to himself to find her beautiful no more; at 
sight of her, he started in spite of himself. In 
vain did he examine her with eyes disposed to 
criticise, made her pass through the strictest 
scrutiny; her beauty came out of this trial victori- 
ous. He thought he perceived that there was in 
her complexion and her look an animation not 
usual with her : happy presentiments, secret hopes, 
shed light over her countenance. He was still re- 
signed to this woman’s not being his; but that she 
could be another’s ! The demon of jealousy gnawed 
at his heart, and a bad thought came to him. 

Madame d’Azado asked if he had heard from 
Didier. 

“No, Madame,” answered he, “Didier writes as 
little as he talks. I don’t know why he has gone to 
Avignon. Despite our intimacy, I never question 
him about anything, and I cannot see him without 
thinking of the expression of Scripture : ‘ Dark- 
ness reigned on the face of the deep ; ’ all which 
does not prevent me from being greatly attached to 
him. Never was there a more amiable deep.” 

“It is easy to see that you speak of him like 
a warm friend,” answered Lucile, somewhat 
haughtily. 

“ Ah, Madame ! who can pretend to perfection ? 
I forgive him his excessive reserve, as he pardons 
me my giddy ways. An exchange of little indul- 
gences keeps up friendship.” 


PROSPER . 


267 

“Nevertheless, you are not ignorant of every- 
thing,” said Madame Brehanne. “You know, 
without doubt, all about the tragic adventure of 
Remuzat. It is said that you were in the place.” 

“ I do not know what you mean, Madame,” an- 
swered he, with a discreet air. 

“ There is much gossiping in small towns,” said 
Madame d’Azado, with an impatient gesture, “ and 
it is well to shut one’s ears to foolish stories.” 

“ Ah ! permit me,” said Madame Brehanne. 
“You defend your cousin; nothing is more natural; 
relations owe each other that much. After all, 
what is he reproached with ? With having a heart 
more inflammable than he likes to show. The 
physician of Remuzat, a serious man, as it appears, 
has been witness of the fury of a husband — 
Heavens! the crime is not a black one ; it is not a 
case for hanging. I merely infer from it that those 
men who seem to be moved by nothing, must be 
carefully watched. What is your opinion, sir ? ” 

Randoce turned away his head, feigning embar- 
rassment. 

“ I think,” he answered, “ that Madame d’Azado 
is right, and that the physician of Remuzat is no 
oracle.” 

And then, hastening to break off this conversa- 
tion, he asked Lucile the name of a flower, then 
from one subject to another, and by ingenious 
windings, he came to speaking of theatres, and 
questioned Madame Brehanne about the new 
pieces she had seen in Paris. He listened patiently 
to her reply, which was not brief, after which he 
said to her, laughing : 

“ Have you no curiosity to hear Theresa, or her 
rival, the famous Carminette ? ” 

“ It was not my curiosity which was at fault,” 
answered she, “ but people say that this kind of en- 
tertainment is forbidden fruit for honest women. 


263 


PROSPER . 


This Carminette is making a furore. I had prom- 
ised myself to get her photograph, for I am just 
making a collection of celebrities for my album; 
but in the hurry of departure, I forgot all about it.” 

“If you desire to make acquaintance with this 
heroine,” said he, “ I have the means of satisfying 
you;” and taking out his pocket-book, he showed 
her the photograph of Carminette. 

Madame Brehanne wished to take it from his 
hands. 

“ I cannot let it go,” said he. “ I can allow it to 
be looked at, but not to be touched. I have my 
reasons for this.” 

This mystery provoked the curiosity of Madame 
Brehanne. She thrust forth her head, cried out in 
admiration, declared loudly that the portrait of 
Mile. Carminette indicated a very extraordinary 
person, and entreated Prosper to give it up to her, 
that she might place it in her album. 

“I consent,” said he, “but on condition that you 
procure me a penknife to scratch out some words 
which must be read by no one.” 

A gleam of jealousy shone in the eyes of Madame 
Brehanne. She adroitly stretched out her arm, and 
seized the photograph, which Prosper made a feeble 
pretence of withholding. He pretended to be 
vexed, and called out loudly to have his property 
restored to him. Whilst he was protesting, 
Madame Brehanne had satisfied her curiosity, and 
bursting into a laugh : “ Here is a strange thing,” 
said she to her daughter. “ If you persist, my 
dear, in defending your cousin’s virtue against 
everybody and everything, you will have to shut 
not only your ears but your eyes.” 

With these words, she handed her the picture, 
which Madame d’Azado pushed back with her 
hand. 

“Don’t you see I am joking ?” began Madame 


PROSPER. 


269 

Br6hanne once more. “ M. Randoce has written on 
the back of this card a quatrain, which is charm- 
ing, and, for politeness’ sake alone, you cannot dis- 
pense with reading it.” 

Lucile took the card, read at a glance the pre- 
tended quatrain, and suddenly placed her hand 
upon her heart. The blow had struck. Turning 
towards Randoce, she cast on him a giance of con- 
tempt, and left the room without uttering a word. 

Prosper found it difficult to conceal his joy. His 
eyes sparkled. 

“ What have we done ? ” said he to Madame Bre- 
hanne. “Madame d’Azado loves her cousin.” 

“ I suspected as much,” answered she, “ and now 
I am sure of it. This, then, is the mysterious tie 
which has kept my daughter in Nyons, where she is 
as much bored as I am. I am not sorry at having 
spoiled her business. I can hope now to get her 
back to Lima.” 

“You are very much attached, then, to your 
famous Lima ? ” said Prosper to her. 

“Peru,” she cried, “Peru! One lives only at 
Peru! ” 

He made her talk about Peru. She spoke of 
it eloquently, as we always speak about what 
we love. The picture which she drew for 
him of Lima and its inhabitants was warm in 
color, and made him think. Scarcely had he re- 
turned to the Guard , when he looked up in his 
brother’s library all those books of geography and 
travels in which there was any mention of Peru. 
He placed them in a pile, brought them down to 
the drawing-room, began to turn the leaves of each, 
one after another. He plunged into this study with 
the feverish ardor which he put into everything; 
his head began to turn ; all was forgotten, his 
brother and Carminette, his angers, his jealousies, 
and the miserable petty action he had just commit- 


27 o 


PROSPER. 


ted. He thought only of Peru — nothing existed 
except Peru. Through the whole evening he 
dreamed of Lima, of its wide streets and low houses, 
of the mines of Potosi, of ebony trees, cotton 
trees, pine-apples, alpagas, vicunias, lance-wood, 
and dragon’s blood. He said to himself, that if the 
author of Atala had discovered a new poetry on 
the banks of the Mississippi, no poet had yet put to 
use the Peruvian Andes; this magnificent conquest 
was reserved for him ; he could not fail to gather, 
on the slopes of Sorata, harvests of ideas and trop- 
ical images, and to bring back a palette gilded by 
the sun, Avhose dazzling reflections he would scatter 
with a full brush throughout his drama. A Son of 
Faust returned from Peru! what an event! what a 
prodigy of Art! He became intoxicated over this 
great and sublime design. Until the dawn, he be- 
held himself in a dream, traversing Sierras planted 
with palms and cocoa-trees, at the feet of which 
grew hyperboles as big as pumpkins, and splendid 
metaphors the color of fire, which exhaled odors of 
tuberose and magnolia. 

He awoke, still having Peru in his head, and his 
new mania held him until noon. A note brought 
by the postman changed the current of his ideas, 
and brought him back from America at full speed. 
Carminette had welcomed his proposition ; she 
found herself at the end of her stock of songs; as 
a mouse is enticed with nuts, so he had promised 
her three little songs; she had let herself be taken 
by this bait. She had a delicate mind, she liked 
fine spices, and preferred Randoce’s to any other 
cookery. With all this, Carminette had taken it 
into her head that Prosper had written to her with 
the consent, and probably the request of Didier; 
she figured to herself that her picture had produced 
its effect, that the contemner of her charms had 
suddenly thought better of it, that the scales had 


PROSPER. 


271 


fallen from his eyes, and he was dying to make up 
with her, and regain his lost opportunity. She re- 
solved to arrive at the Guard, armed in the most 
superb indifference, and pitilessly to turn the knife 
in the heart of her victim. This sort of sport was 
alluring to her waspish humor. She wrote to 
Randoce : 

“ Agreed, old fellow ! I will go to see you at 
your friend’s, not later than day after to-morrow. 
You must talk nothing but friendship to me — I 
have become serious, you see, and can live now 
only for art; this is a word of yours, which I have 
retained. Could not thy Didier bring me the keys 
of his chateau on a silver dish ? His vassals could 
be drawn up in a line on either side. I should like 
them to be powdered. If he is nice, and does 
things well, I will sing him all the rollicking songs 
he pleases. Without a grudge, 

“ Thy old friend.” 

“ Adieu to Peru and cocoa-trees! ” said Randoce, 
as he folded up the note again. “ Carminette for- 
ever! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

When - she left the drawing-room, Madame 
d’Azado had taken refuge in her chamber, where she 
passed many hours, given over to the deepest 
dejection. For some days, she had cherished sweet 
hopes, and all at once this supense, this cruel 
return of misfortune ! She looked long at the 
portrait of Carminette, which she intended to re- 
store with her own hand to Didier. “ This, then,” 
thought she, “ is what has consoled him for being 


272 


PROSPER . 


unable to love me. He had created for himself a 
phantom, to which, for want of something better, 
he had lent my voice and smile, and one day when 
I wore in my hair a wreath of poppies, he exclaimed, 
‘ This is my chimera! 5 But it sufficed for his lips 
to touch mine to feel his illusion destroyed, and 
to make him blush for his mistake. Then he asked 
himself what he could do to make him forget his 
dis-illusion. This woman has crossed his path, and 
he has said to himself, 6 Here is pleasure! ’ Is there 
then for him nothing between an impossible 
chimera, and the reality I behold here! At least 
this singing woman has not deceived him; her face 
tells the story of what she is ; when he loved her, 
he knew what he wanted; and what he sought for, 
he has found.” And again she said to herself: “He 
had offended me, and yet I did not cease to love 
him. I thought him changeable, irresolute, chimer- 
ical — I would have forgiven him everything, had 
he been sincere; but he has deceived me. He told 
a falsehood! Is he not the friend of a Randoce ? 
This friendship condemns him. When he descends 
from lofty peaks, he loves to breathe the heavy air 
of marshes. He must have Randoces, Carminettes. 
I know no longer what to think. I only see that 
nothing is certain — that we must count on misery 
alone.” 

The next day she had to force herself to begin 
living once more. She went and came, occupying 
herself as usual with her house, her garden, her 
poor, with the reading lessons she gave to her ten- 
ant’s daughters ; but at each instant she said to 
herself: “ This, then, is Life, only this.” Madame 
Brehanne beheld her so serious in manner, so ab- 
sorbed in sadness, that she dared not address a 
question to her, or ask to have Carminette’s picture 
back again, or make the least allusion to what had 
passed. 


PROSPER. 


273 

On the third day, towards noon, Madame 
d’Azado had walked down her avenue and stopped 
for a few moments at the gate, when she saw 
approaching on the Orange road a post-chaise, 
driven at full speed. At the moment the carriage 
was about to pass in front of her, a young woman, 
who filled all the inside? of it with the amplitude of 
her skirts, put her head out of the window, called 
to the coachman to stop, and, addressing Lucile — 
“Be so good as to point out to me, Madame,” said she, 
“ the Chateau of M. de Peyrols.” Madame d’Azado 
had not been able to repress a gesture of surprise. 
She looked in silence at the stranger, then indi- 
cated with her hand, on the height, the Chateau 
of the Guard. Carminette let fall an exclamation, 
which I fear resembled an oath ; the route had 
appeared long to her. “ Can one reach it in a car- 
riage ? ” she began once more. 

Lucile made a sign in the negative. “And on 
horseback ? ” Lucile bowed in assent, and casting 
on her a last look, walked away. 

“ The inhabitants of this region are remarkably 
stingy of their words,” muttered Carminette be- 
tween her teeth. Then the driver touched the 
horses with his whip, and the carriage went on its 
way once more. 

“So I have seen my rival,” thought Madame 
d’Azado, as she walked back up the avenue. “ Per- 
haps he has sent for her to compare us at his ease, 
one with the other. From the height of his tribu- 
nal, this great judge will weigh impartially our 
merits, the strong and weak points of each of us. 
It is a good thing to examine before choosing, and 
the wise man will weigh everything dispassion- 
ately.” 

It seemed to her as if her heart beat with new 
strength. She felt herself more calm ; she longed 
to see Pidier again, or rather to see him, for it 
12 * 


274 


PROSPER. 


seemed to her as if she had never seen him. Hei 
curiosity was soon satisfied. A few hours later, he 
presented himself before her. He arrived full 
speed from Avignon ; he had left his carriage at 
the foot of the avenue, and came to seek the reply 
which was to decide his fate. An instant before 
Madame d’Azado believed herself sure of her will, 
sure of her anger ; but at the first look she cast on 
Didier, she felt her heart escape her. The man 
who, standing before her, was waiting for her to 
speak, was not the stranger for whom her indigna- 
tion had prepared a reception worthy of his crimes. 
It was the Didier whom she knew, whom she had a 
thousand times execrated, and whom, while exe- 
crating, she had not been able to help loving. 
Yes, it was indeed he. She asked herself whether 
for eight days she had not been living in a dream. 

Didier perceived her agitation, and augured 
badly from it. “ I like to believe that you have 
not forgotten the question I put to you on leav- 
ing,” said he, in a voice which betrayed his emo- 
tion. “ I come to ask for your answer ; the happi- 
ness of my whole life depends upon it.” 

“Oh, cousin,” she said, with a forced smile, 
“ that is a very old phrase, very much worn out, 
and one which formerly you would have blushed 
to pronounce. You never liked big words, you 
left them to the common run of martyrs. I fear 
your sojourn at Avignon has impaired your wit. 
I had given you a week to reflect ; I hoped that 
you would employ it in thinking better of your 
proposition.” 

He looked at her with an air of astonishment. 
“ I have not reflected,” said he. “ I have done only 
too much of that in my life. I have discovered, 
some time ago, that the simplest thing is to love; 
that simplifies everything.” 

“ Thus, then, the happiness of your whole life will 


PROSPER. 


275 

depend on what I shall say. You make me trem- 
ble. Truly you take it in a very tragical tone. 
I did not think that marriage was, according to 
your ideas, so grave an affair.” Then as he contin- 
ued silent : “For my part,” continued she, “I have 
reflected ; I am, as my mother says, the most posi- 
tive-minded woman in the world. I made once, as 
you know, a marriage of vanity. To try some- 
thing else, I should like to make one of conveni- 
ence. Well, frankly! I can assure you that we 
do not suit each other at all, you and I.” 

“I feel as if in a dream,” he exclaimed, with 
violence. “ What language are you speaking ? 
You have learned it, too lately ; you know it 
badly.” 

She shook her head. “ You are right : I see that 
I must speak seriously. Sit down here, listen to 
me. Almost a year ago, you had a fancy for me. 
How long did it last ! You know your letter. 
Let me speak. I make no crime out of your frank- 
ness ; quite the contrary ; but that this somewhat 
brutal frankness has caused me to suffer much — 
why conceal this from you ? I will confess to you 
something else. It seemed to me right that it 
should cost you something to be frank. That I 
should be the only one to suffer, no, that was not 
just. Your letter expressed a grief, which seemed 
sincere. I said to myself, he is as unhappy as I am : 
I have a right to be angry with him, but no right 
to withdraw from him my esteem. Some days 
after, I was told that you had just started suddenly 
for Paris. This departure, I confess, caused me 
much speculation. I know men well enough to 
know that they have always the resource of con- 
juring away their ennui. I asked myself whether 
you had not gone to Paris to seek certain distrac- 
tions. You had wished to impose upon your heart 
a serious sentiment ; it had quickly kicked against 


PROSPER . 


276 

its burden ; perhaps you wanted to make or re- 
make another experiment to demand happiness of 
those facile loves, which bind one to nothing. If 
it were proved to me that I have not been mistaken 
in my conjectures, indeed, I should not treat you 
as a criminal; only, as I have told you already, I 
should be anxious, very anxious. On my con- 
science, it would be impossible for me to link my 
fate to that of a man so easily wrought upon. Be 
sincere, tell me the whole truth. Is it not the 
least I can ask of you ? ” 

“ Is that all that stops you ! ” he replied, with a 
radiant air. “ You shall know whenever you will 
what I went to do in Paris ; I will relate to you, 
hour by hour, the long sad days I passed there. 
My father had left me duties to fulfil. I did what 
I could, I did not succeed, and this ill-success has 
been for me a source of indescribable disgust; but 
I regret nothing. I was living in indifference; the 
cruel experiences, the bitterness which I have felt, 
and still feel, have awakened me ; for the first time 
I have felt the necessity of being consoled, of be- 
ing happy — and happiness is here! ” added he, ex- 
tending his arms towards her. She was seized with 
a violent emotion. “ Then,” said she, “ the oath 
I made you take the other day ” — 

“ I am ready to renew it, but it would, I confess, 
cost me much. Your distrust is painful to me. I 
am no saint, no hero, but I do deserve to have my 
word taken.” 

“Take care,” she said, “we have proofs;” and, 
rising as she spoke, she took from her desk the 
photograph of Carminette, which she presented to 
him. He was stupefied. She made a sign to him to 
turn the card over, and he read what Carminette 
had written on the back. He struck his forehead ; 
his countenance expressed a bitterness of despair, 
for which Lucile could not account. 


PROSPER. 


2 77 

“ Is it he — is it M. Randoce who gave you this 
card ? ” said he. 

“ In future,” she replied, “ you will be more cir- 
cumspect in the choice of your friendships.” 

“This man is no friend of mine ! ” cried he; “he 
is my brother.” She uttered an exclamation. 
“Yes, my brother — and my mortal enemy.” 

He remained for a moment plunged in mute 
despondency ; he had forgotten Lucile, he thought 
only of Randoce. Returning to himself, “ Pardon 
me,” said he ; “I had forgotten that this picture 
accuses me. Undeceive yourself. This woman I 
have seen at his house, and I assure you — Let me 
recover my self-possession ; I will tell you every- 
thing.” 

She stopped him with a gesture ; her head erect, 
and eyes kindling, she looked at him with an air 
of exaltation which lent to her beauty a sublime 
expression — “Not a word!” said she, “explain 
nothing. I believe you. Has not the Gospel said, 
4 Blessed are they who believe ’ ? Let me enjoy all 
my happiness.” 

He threw himself at her feet, and seized both her 
hands, which he covered with kisses. Again and 
again he tried to begin his recital ; she closed his 
mouth. “No, I will not hear you,” she said; 
“ later, you shall tell me, later. To-day I wish to 
know but one thing : it is that I believe you.” 

He looked at her with a look of adoration. Sud- 
denly she shivered, and shaking her head with a 
tearful smile, “ Can there be poppies in my hair ? ” 
asked she. 

“ Oh, reassure yourself,” he exclaimed. “ It is 
no longer a phantom that I love, it is a woman. 
You have learned two great things in life. You 
know how to pardon and how to believe. I must 
go to your school. You shall give me a little of 
your heart.” 


27 3 


PROSPER. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

As he reached the Guard, Didier saw Marion 
coming to meet him. She appeared to he beside 
herself. Her countenance was entirely discom- 
posed, and she lifted her arms to heaven, as though 
to call on it to witness. It was some time before 
she could speak. Finally, in a broken voice, she 
informed Didier that, in his absence, the most un- 
heard-of things had happened. A woman had come; 
no, not a woman, but a fiend in petticoats, who 
swore like a grenadier. To do honor to this prin- 
cess, Prosper had given orders to Baptiste to pre- 
pare a regular Belshazzar’s feast, and rising at 
daybreak, had levied a contribution on all the flow- 
ers of the garden, which he had spread like a litter 
in front of the house, after which he had obliged 
all the workmen to leave their work, to dress them- 
selves in their best, to salute the arrival of this 
female imp with salvoes of guns and fire-crackers. 
What had followed, was, said Marion, impossible to 
describe ; it seemed as if the Guard had been given 
to pillage, like a city taken by assault. The good 
woman exaggerated ; in all these tragic recitals 
there was nothing true, except the devastated flower- 
beds, and a little broken china. “ At this moment,” 
she said in conclusion, “they are shut up in the 
drawing-room, where they are storming away, each 
louder than the other. It is such a hubbub that you 
could not hear God’s own thunder. No one dares 
enter. Ah ! sir, may God preserve you from your 
friends ! What would your poor father have 
thought of such an adventure ? ” 

“ To say the truth,” answered Didier, “ he would 
be the last person to have a right to complain.” 

On approaching the house, he heard loud voices. 
He opened the door of the drawing-room and beheld 


PROSPER . 


279 


a scene very different from what he expected. 
Prosper, with disordered hair, was on his knees in 
the attitude of the most humble of suppliants. 
From his pale lips, convulsively agitated, poured a 
long stream of eloquence. Leaning against the 
mantel-piece, Carminette was gazing at him with a 
hard expression, and scarcely seeming to hear him ; 
her face showed the most utter vexation. She bit- 
terly regretted having come, and was cursing her 
own complaisance. She had thought to find at 
Nyons, Didier and three songs. No Didier, no 
songs: she should be obliged to go away again with 
empty hands. The heaps of flowers which had been 
spread under her feet, the crackers with which she 
had been saluted, the succulent repast she had just 
made, seemed to her a meagre consolation for the 
mournful complaints which she was obliged to 
listen to. 

In vain did Prosper essay to move her. He kept 
telling her that she was his soul, his madness, his 
sole and eternal love, that he could not live without 
her, that they had been created for each other, that 
since she had left him, he had lost his joy, his talent; 
he recalled to her all he had done for her, the de- 
lightful days they had passed together ; he promised 
her that, if she would take him back once more, she 
should find in him the most submissive slave, that he 
would give himself wholly to her, that he would re- 
veal to her genius secrets still unknown to her ; 
riches, glory, happiness, a future without parallel, 
awaited them ; they should owe everything to each 
other, never would there have been under the skies 
a couple of lovers better matched, such an example 
of unalterable harmony and ideal felicity. Carmi- 
nette continued to be as insensible as a rock ; she 
answered all these speeches only with shrugs of her 
shoulders, and a clicking of her tongue, which signi- 
fied “ What nonsensical humbug all this is ! ” From 


280 


PROSPER . 


time to time, to amuse herself, she drew circles on 
the floor with the tip of her foot, or casting a 
glance at the mirror, readjusted a lock of her hair, 
which had got out of curl. When she beheld 
Didier enter, she blessed this unlooked-for succor, 
and was tempted to intone the canticle of deliver- 
ance. 

“ This poor man needs a douche ,” said she, point- 
ing with her finger at Randoce. “ If his malady 
continues, you will have to put a strait-jacket on 
him ! ” And at these words, with a slight patron- 
izing bow to Didier, she crossed the room, putting 
on the air of a duchess; but just as she opened the 
door, her native disposition resuming the ascendant, 
she turned round suddenly, stretched out her right 
arm, and expressed the finest essence of her idea by 
one of those bold and picturesque snaps of the fin- 
gers, which constituted the triumph of her art. 
This one left nothing to be desired; by means of 
labor and research, Carminette had attained perfec- 
tion. Randoce rose at a bound, and with clinched 
fists tried to spring after hei;. Didier barred his 
passage ; Baptiste, who had followed him, came to 
his aid ; they had need of all their united strength 
to hold this madman, who struggled in their arms. 
He finished by yielding, ceased all resistance, 
looked at his brother with gloomy eyes, and turn- 
ing his back, fled to his room, drawing the bolt 
after him. While this was going on, Carminette 
had mounted her horse and ridden off in haste, 
very much out of humor with everything except 
her fillip. 

Randoce remained the whole evening shut up in 
his room. Didier found himself in a singular state 
of mind ; he was at once very happy and very un- 
happy ; he knew not how to make his joy and his 
sadness accord together. Lucile and his brother, 
the charm and the plague of his existence, a veri- 


PROSPER. 


28l 


table plague of Egypt. At midnight he was still in 
his arm-chair, studying out this formidable prob- 
lem, and knowing not what decision to arrive at, 
when Prosper, half-dressed, suddenly opened the 
door of his study, crying, “We must have done 
with this. What have you decided upon ? ” 

“I have decided that you should begin by 
making an apology to me,” answered Didier, show- 
ing him Carminette’s photograph. 

“An apology! For what? You have seen 
Madame d’Azado again; you have persuaded her. 
I read your happiness in your eyes.” 

“ Is your proceeding the less unworthy, because 
you have not done the harm you intended ? ” 

“You confess, then, that you are happy? Have 
at least the modesty to be silent about it. And I, 
too,” he continued in a gloomy tone, “ I, too, have 
known happiness. Formerly I worked, I loved, I 
was beloved: I led the life which suited my tastes, 
my disposition. I felt myself at ease in this world ; 
if I wanted anything, my imagination supplied it ; 
at that time it was rich to the amount of millions ; 
it brewed dreams in a golden vat. But you made 
your appearance like a tempter ; with your grand 
maxims and your scented words, you roused in my 
soul unwholesome ambition; by right of birth you 
could permit yourself to have at once all pleasures 
and all scruples, which is, I confess, perfect felicity; 
you caused to shine before my eyes that great hum- 
bug-honest success — and you slyly worked to dis- 
gust me with my happiness. What a fine work you 
have accomplished ! You took the fish out of its 
pond, under pretext that it was stagnating in the 
mud, and that you would refresh it in running 
water; but after bringing it away from its mire, 
you left it on the bank high and dry, and it dies of 
asphyxia. Who has disgusted me with my poverty, 
my work, my talent? You! Who has closed 


282 


PROSPER . 


to me every road to fortune and glory? You, 
again.” 

“ What terrifies me,” said Didier, “ is that you 
speak in good faith, and really believe all the ab- 
surdities that you are uttering. It is a dangerous 
thing, the talent you have of persuading yourself 
of everything which it pleases you to believe.” 

“ It is true,” continued Randoce, “ that you have 
recompensed me magnificently for all my losses — 
I am your brother ! Wonderful honor ! Never 
was spunger better treated ; you never count the 
pieces on my plate. And what pains you deign to 
take, to form my heart and mind ! If your purse 
is closed to me, you share your conscience with me. 
I am your scholar, your penitent. You criticise 
my actions and my verses. You bring me up un- 
der the rod. All this is a diversion to you; it keeps 
you in movement; were it not for me, you would 
die of ennui. Suffer me, in my turn, to give you a 
piece of advice. Be on your guard against me. I 
am desperate. Whatever pleasure you find in my 
society, you had better tell your servants to pitch 
me out of doors. Half-measures are dangerous. 
Be careful — I feel myself capable of any thing.” 

“You know me very little,” answered Didier 
tranquilly, “ if you believe that insults or threats 
have any power over me.” 

“ If I were to kneel to you,” exclaimed Randoce 
in a rage, “ how long would you leave me at your 
feet?” 

“ What phrases ! what phrases ! ” murmured 
Didier, “ what an actor ! ” 

“ And if I swore to you that I loved you like a 
brother — that is the word you ask — would you be 
simple enough to believe me ? ” 

“ I am so weary, so mortally weary of all that 
has passed here for the last few months, that in 


PROSPER. 


283 

truth, yes, I should make a pretence of believing 
you, and should behave accordingly.” 

“ It is a lie which you shall never get out of me. 
What the devil ! There are things impossible. 
No — never shall you have the happiness of hearing 
me say : My good brother, how sublime you are ! 
Alms, please ! You have read Shakespeare, my good 
sir. I will say to you, like Orlando — ‘ My father’s 
soul in me begins to revolt against this servitude.’ 
I am sorry, I am no pumpkin-heart. Look at me 
well ; I stand here, and I demand my lawful 
rights. Yes, I resemble my father, I have a 
judicial mind like his. Rights ! rights ! I know 
only natural right! All your human laws I despise 
like so many rags. I love you ! why ? Because 
you have everything, and I have nothing? Be- 
cause you were born in a chateau and I grew up in 
an attic ! And which of us best deserves to be rich ? 
Which of us, you or I, is most cut out for action, 
for enjoyment ? What do you do with your money? 
Nothing ? You sleep: one can sleep on a flock-bed. 
What does the oyster need to make it happy ? a 
shell that closes. I was born to know everything, 
to possess everything, to will everything. I had 
all curiosities, all appetites, the whole world beat 
in my heart ; but poverty has said to me, ‘ No, you 
shall dream of life, you shall not live.’ ” 

“You. are right a thousand times,” answered 
Didier. “ I know not what to do with my fortune. 
Nevertheless, last week, I gave myself the pleasure 
of saving from despair an old friend of my father’s, 
by standing security for him to a considerable 
amount.” 

“ Lucky for him that he was not your brother,” 
answered Randoce. “ But I have guessed your 
secret. You are jealous of me, you cannot pardon 
me my talent. Let us have done with this. Do 
me justice and you shall have my esteem; mean- 


PROSPER. 


284 

time, allow me to hate and despise you, as I despise 
the man who basely abandoned me, who gayly 
dedicated me to all the humiliations of poverty, 
who said on calling me into the world, ‘ My boy, I 
have had a few hours of pleasure ; get out of the 
scrape as you can.’ ” 

“ Unhappy man ! ” uttered Didier with a groan. 
“Unhappy! yes, I am. Just now Carminette 
was here. The sound of her voice is still in my 
ears. My only treasure, my whole fortune.” Then, 
in a voice of thunder, “ I ask you, for the last time, 
What have you decided ? ” 

“ Perhaps I shall know, if you ask me in another 
tone.” Randoce sprang towards a trophy of 
weapons which hung against the wall ; he took 
down a pistol. “Take care, it is loaded,” cried 
Didier. “ What do you mean to do ? ” 

“ Don’t be uneasy ; what should I gain by killing 
myself ? ” And searching in a drawer he pulled out 
a box from which he took a cap and put it on. 

“What have you done ’with your sachet of 
lavender?” asked Didier. 

“ I did not think of that — you are right,” said 
he, laying down the weapon upon the table. He 
opened the window, leaned on the sill, breathed in 
the coolness of the night, contemplated the firma- 
ment. He expected that his brother would profit 
by his delay to seize upon the murderous weapon 
and put it in a place of safety. Didier did not stir. 
Finally Randoce stood up again. Pointing with 
his hand to the starry sky, “ It is very well done,” 
said he, “ but it is always the same thing.” He 
advanced quickly to the table, like a man who has 
made up his mind : he seized the pistol, looked at 
his brother, pressed the muzzle to his right temple, 
and pulled the trigger. The cap went off, and that 
was all. The pistol was not loaded. Didier knew 
it — and Randoce ? He had just taken his chance 


PROSPER. 


285 

in a lottery, knowing that there are twenty good 
tickets to one had. But before leaving the room, 
he threw the pistol to the ground with such violence 
f that he broke the cock. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” said Didier, striking his 
breast, “ when shall I know where the actor ends, 
and the man begins ? In vain do I look under the 
mask ; I find no face.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Three weeks later, Didier wrote what follows: 
“ It is over. Between Randoce and me there will 
be the Ocean. Nothing ends, save with death; 
and, thanks to Heaven, we are both of us perfectly 
living, but the Ocean is something. I think at this 
distance, we shall not inconvenience each other, 
and we may love each other. For a whole day, I 
was very anxious. I reproached myself for having 
set him at defiance ; I sought him on the mountain, 
and looking at my hands, thought I perceived stains 
of blood. I hastened to the Three Plane Trees. I 
can still see Lucile running to meet me, quite dis- 
turbed: 4 My mother has gone; she had taken her 
measures so well that I suspected nothing. Her 
room is empty ; she has carried off everything, 
even to her parrot. She had guessed that I should 
leave Nyons no more. 4 They have gone together,’ 
said I ; and I felt as though a mountain had been 
taken off my breast. Then came M. Patru. 4 What 
do you complain of ? ’ he exclaimed. 4 Are you not 
too happy that these two mad creatures have 
fancied each other ? Henceforth your happiness is 
free of all mortgage.’ A letter came to us from 


286 


PROSPER . 


Bordeaux, a letter crazy with love, and equally 
crazy with injustice. Madame Brehanne accused 
us of wishing to separate her from the man of her 
dreams ; his marrying her depended upon us. She 
set forth to us the theories of Randoce, which are 
singular. He thinks that a man may, with a clear 
conscience, allow himself to be supported by a 
mistress; between lovers everything is in common ; 
but he is dishonored in living on the charity of his 
wife. ‘They want to black-mail you,’ said M. 
Patru. 

“ I resolved to start immediately for Bordeaux. 
He prevented me. ‘ You would grant them every- 
thing ! ’ We passed the whole night in battling 
on this point. I said to him . ‘ Think of Randoce 
what you please ; it is still certain that he had but 
one word to utter, one grimace to make, to obtain 
of me all he wanted. This word he has never 
pronounced ; this grimace he has never been able 
to constrain his face to.’ M. Patru set out next 
day, armed with instructions and powers. He 
found the situation somewhat different from what 
he expected. Madame Brehanne appeared to him 
enough in love to lose her eyes ; her adventure had 
transformed, rejuvenated her. She was as hand- 
some as an angel ! Prosper seemed much taken 
with her ; but, according to M. Patru, it is Peru he 
thinks of most. The sum of the two annuities was 
long and sharply discussed. Madame Brehanne 
disputed like an attorney. Prosper acted indiffer- 
ence and said not a word. M. Patru declared to 
them that he was our ambassador, that the money 
must pass through his hands, that they would have 
to address themselves to him. ‘ Marry at once,’ 
said he, ‘ embark for Lima, and let us never see you 
again ! ’ 

“‘Ah, indeed,’ said Prosper, ‘when I shall have 
finished my drama! ’ 


PROSPER. 287 

“ ‘ Your drama ! Who the devil still believes in 
your drama?’ 

“ Prosper has written me. He is a noble soul. 
He consents to forget everything. He jokes upon 
the new relations which our double marriage is 
about to establish between us. ‘Thanks to God! 
you are no longer my brother. You shall be ac- 
cording to circumstances my son-in-law or my 
nephew. I can cover myself before you like a 
grandee of Spain.’ The rest of his letter is a can- 
ticle in praise of Peru. A new Pizarro, he is 
preparing to conquer the empire of the Incas in 
the interest of his sovereign queen — Poetry. He 
already sees immense horizons opening before him. 
Immense! in the very hour of death, l^e will have 
that word on his lips. 

“Yesterday I was making a melancholy reflection. 
Prosper is a temperament; I am perhaps a soul. 
If we were melted together, the combination 
might well produce a great poet. Such as we are, 
each of us is the half of some one. I have the 
power of dreaming ; he has action ; from his action 
applied to the service of my dream, there might 
perchance spring something great. 

“ What would my father say ? Alas ! I have 
failed miserably. The task was beyond my strength. 
There is no man in the world less fit than I to take 
the ascendency over another man. Prosper has 
done more for me than I have done for him. He 
has drawn me out of my indifference, he has made 
me desire happiness, he has reconciled me with the 
possible. It is the patient curing the physician. 

“I pass with her whole days, which flow by like 
minutes. Whether she speaks, or is silent, her" 
presence suffices me ; I think of nothing beyond 
it. When I have left her, disquietude lays hold on 
me again. I ask myself, ‘Will the happiness of 
to-morrow be like to-day’s ? ’ but hardly have I seen 


288 


PROSPER. 


her again when all my , doubts are dispelled. What 
is then this music, which lulls the heart and pro- 
longs the dream ? 

“ This afternoon, we walked along "the Aygues. 
We sat down on the bank at the foot of a willow. 
Just here the river runs deep. All at once, a mad 
impulse seized me to twine my arms about her and 
throw myself with her into this deep water, to be 
sure of carrying with me into death what filled my 
heart. It seemed as if she had divined my 
thought. She turned towards me smiling, and, on 
her half-opened lips, life appeared to me beautiful 
as a dream.” 

On the day of his marriage, Didier was late at the 
Mayor’s. He had set out very early. Perceiving 
that he was in advance of the hour, he slackened 
his pace, and soon went and sat down upon a stone 
on the border of a ravine. Prosper had written to 
him the day before to announce his marriage and 
his departure. He read over this note, and occu- 
pied himself with drawing his brother’s horoscope, 
and calculating his chances of happiness. “Never 
to criticise one’s self for an instant, to have a hobby, 
believe blindly in one’s own talent, and behold in 
life only a theme for literature, these are,” thought 
he, “precious advantages. The Randoces of this 
world can turn everything to use, even misfortune. 
Prosper will never have griefs which he cannot put 
into rhyme. . Happy man ! ” While saying this, he 
caught himself imitating the inimitable fillip of 
Carminette. “ Well, yes,” he began again, “ Car- 
minette’s fillip ! Can that be the end of things, 
the last expression of wisdom ? Happy girl ! ” 

But instantly returning to himself, he felt a 
great confusion. He took from his bosom an ivory 
medallion containing Lucile’s miniature. For some 
days he had been in possession of this treasure. 
He opened the box, and contemplated, with eager 


PROSPER. 


289 

eye, the picture which was skilfully painted ; the 
resemblance was striking. It is possible that Di- 
dier was cured, as he flattered himself with being ; 
but he had some slight remains of his malady. At 
least this is what happened to him. So long as he 
found himself in the presence of Madame d’Azado, 
he tasted a tranquil happiness, a peace, silent and 
profound ; but away from her, if he looked at 
her picture, he went into an ecstasy; his heart beat 
violently, the fire of fever heated his blood, he 
thought himself catching a glimpse of I know not 
what divine creature, to whom he extended his 
arms, and who held him at a distance and refused 
his love. Let him who can explain this enigma ! 
If he passionately loved the woman, yet it was the 
picture he was in love with. 

The song of a peasant, cutting an osier stock, 
roused him from his reverie. He blushed as if 
caught in a flirtation, closed the medallion pre- 
cipitately, looked at his watch, struck his forehead, 
and began to run. When he arrived, they had 
waited for him twenty minutes, and Lucile was 
beginning to be uneasy. I know not what he 
found to say to her to justify his unpardonable 
delay. 


THE END. 


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